


beyond wandpoint

by gingerbred



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (I'm very sorry about that), Albus is a manipulative douchecanoe..., Apparently Angst happens, Canon-typical deaths eventually, Everyone else can go to hell, F/M, Genre-Typical Violence, HEA, Hogwarts Seventh Year, Love Story, Not that they will, Severus and Hermione will be fine, Slow Burn, Slytherins Being Slytherins, no suspense here, which would make it 'angst with happy end'
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-01-29 22:42:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 102
Words: 563,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12640809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingerbred/pseuds/gingerbred
Summary: It's seventh year, Dumbledore is still alive and, after Hermione is attacked in the halls of the school, he comes up with a plan he is ever so sure will keep her safe... amongst other things. His Potions Master must be bonded to her. Of course! It's the only thing for it. It's not like Albus has ever been wrong before. Severus is understandably chuffed, but maybe it won't be as bad as he thinks. Sure, because he's typically lucky.





	1. Previously

****

###  **Summary:**

  
7th year, canon through OotP, and then it cherry picks, because why the hell not?

Dumbledore is still alive and, after Hermione is attacked in the halls of the school, he comes up with a plan he is ever so sure will keep her safe... amongst other things. His Potions Master must be bonded to her. Of course. It's the only thing for it. It's not like Albus has ever been wrong before. 

Severus is understandably chuffed. 

But maybe it won't be as bad as he thinks. Sure, because he's typically lucky. 

 

****

###  **Previously:**

  
Let's do this the shorter, if expositiony, way so we're all starting on the same page, so to speak ( **non-canon elements are in bold** ). Picture, if you will: It's seventh year now. **HBP didn't quite happen that way, many of its events are being spread over 6th and 7th years, and we're ignoring large parts of DH except for the background information and insights it provides on the characters** , because frankly the book made me a little miserable, and life's too short. (Try to love me anyway, ta. I'm mostly lovely... Yes, even if I do say so myself.)

Back in sixth year, Harry snagged the Half-Blood Prince's textbook, made enthusiastic use of it to ingratiate himself to Sluggy, the _bastard_ (ten points to Gryffindor for being enterprising, cheers!), and Sectumsempraed Draco from stem to stern. **True to form, Dumbledore took an Oath from Draco and bound him to silence** and both he and Severus are more enamored of dear Harrykins than ever. This seriously pushes a number of Severus' buttons (we all know how many of _those_ he has), and he's feeling frightfully stabby. 

Harry's use of the Felix Felicis Potion to pick Sluggy's brain revealed two crucial things, the first, that Slughorn did in fact talk to Tom Riddle about Horcruxes while he was a student, and **the second, that Sluggy immediately high-handedly criticised Horcruxes as a solution if only one could brew Salazar's adaptation of Merlin's Invincibility Potion instead. Whatever _that_ is. Hmm... Dumbledore sets Harry on the first problem and Severus on the latter, keeping both in the dark about the other's mission. Because that's how he rolls. Nit.**

**After _much_ searching, the recipe for the potion is found. If only that were the end of it... **

**Severus' first problem is to figure out what they need to brew the potion. It's not like the recipe is in plain text; that's for losers. Or Muggles. (Although the Ministry now admits: they are not as stupid as initially thought...) Some ingredients are commonplace, _most_ are hard to come by, and a small handful he just can't seem to figure out. How promising. Additionally Albus is now certain that they'll need several magical artefacts for the brewing, too, not that he knows what they are. The memories he collected and shared with Harry sixth year do double duty, to find the Horcruxes and help solve the brewing problem.**

One such memory was of the very rich Hepzibah Smith, an avid collector of magical antiquities. The memory revealed her showing Riddle her two most prized possessions, Salazar Slytherin's locket and **Merlin's silver stirring rod. While that's no proof, Dumbledore strongly suspects Tom stole them and used both in recreating the Invincibility Potion,** as the artefacts were never recovered on her death.

Albus has already found the ring that Tom stole from his uncle where it was hidden in Gaunt the cottage. **He's lifted the curse, so that Severus can safely use it to brew, but sadly only after he himself was fatally cursed. His arm continues to wither, and he thinks he hasn't much longer now. Unfortunately, there's still _so_ much he needs to figure out.**

 _Almost_ equally traumatically, WonWon spent a large chunk of last year snogging LavLav, but eventually crumbled under the weight of that and sought canonical refuge, well, not _quite_ in Hermione's arms, but, y'know. Sadly, he's still not man enough for her, that was going nowhere fast, and **when Hermione wanted to turn in Harry's Potions text after he attacked Draco, Ron again accused her of betrayal ('Firebolt' anyone?) and ghosted her the rest of the year and most of the summer. _Tosser_. She may be used to it, but it's getting old fast.**

****

****

**Early in June, suitably recovered from Harry's attack, Draco went back to scheming. It was only a question of time. He attempted _yet another_ convoluted plot to smuggle _yet another_ dark McGuffin onto school grounds, a diabolical draught procured courtesy of Dogweed and Deathcap, Hogsmeade. In a flash of inspiration, the Imperiused courier he selected _this time_ was none other than his cousin Nymphadora Tonks, stationed in town. One would think misusing an _Auror_ in this fashion would lead to better results than a barmaid or fellow student, but then one would also need to be unfamiliar with the targeted good lady's ungainliness. Alas, Draco doesn't know his cousin very well. **

**It went as it had to.**

**With the mysterious substance stowed theoretically safely in her pocket, Tonks and Kingsley were drawn into a skirmish with Death Eaters while on patrol in which she suffered a minor injury. Unfortunately, as she was hexed she stumbled, fantastically, the phial broke, the gelatinous gloop splashed onto her skin, and she collapsed in a writhing, shrieking heap on the ground. Heeding the call of Kingsley's Patronus, Remus and other Order members quickly arrived to help, and the attackers were soon dispatched. Sadly, her friends were at a complete loss what to do for the young witch.**

**In short order, she was brought to the school's Infirmary. Severus was out gathering ingredients for his... secret project, and Poppy proved as unable to help as the others faced with this strange, unknown substance, and briefly all feared the worst. Tonks, however, is naturally blessed with a great deal of luck, both good and bad, and the properties of her malleable skin served to enable her to ultimately shake off a dose that would almost definitely have killed almost any other witch or wizard without her gifts. It was a close-run thing, but soon she was up and about again, with a ready 'Wotcher' on her lips.**

**Not long thereafter, that wasn't the only thing on her lips.**

**Once the dust settled, realising life's too short, she told Remus she loves him and to stop being so thick. The scare of almost losing her seems to have finally brought the werewolf to his senses, and he swept the young Metamorphmagus into his arms for a good snog.** They were married in a small ceremony in July. 

As no one was seriously injured, Albus again turned a blind eye to Draco's machinations. 

**Severus schooled the boy to sell Tonks' injuries as a deliberate and very serious attempt on her life for her disloyalty to the Dark Lord and the pure-blood cause. Draco wouldn't _dream_ of accepting such a thing from a family member... This won him a reprieve for his numerous failures on the Headmaster's execution front, and Voldemort found himself ostensibly sufficiently impressed by his actions that he finally deigned to free Lucius and his fellow inmates from Azkaban as a reward. How lovely. Severus half suspects this was meant as a punishment... Lucius and Draco probably feel much the same about it themselves. The feeling is only reinforced when You-Know-Who avails himself of Lucius' wand in addition to his home.**

**As the lot of the freed Death Eaters now find themselves hiding out under a veil of very black cloaking magic at Malfoy Manor, there is indeed good cause to believe this is by no means a reward. Only when they gain control of the Ministry will they truly be free. It can't happen soon enough. But in the meantime, as long as the Prophet's on their side... And officially, of course, there hasn't been an escape. Again.**

**The Battle of the Seven Potters took place pretty much as we know it, except the suggestion came to the Order members directly from Albus. Harry distributed what was left of his Liquid Luck to his friends who played the other 'Harry's, and they arrived safely** (except for Mundungus who bunked off). Sadly, Hedwig and Moody did not. Harry blames himself, as he does. **Severus had to maintain his cover and flew masked. He did not inadvertently slice off George's ear, possibly because of the Felix Felicis Potion, but there may have been other casualties.**

**Just the day before his wedding, on Harry's birthday as it happens, while on a break for lunch, Bill encountered a small handful of You-Know-Who's men snatching Garrick Ollivander from Diagon Alley.** Curious about the destruction of Lucius' wand in the Battle Over Little Whinging, ol' Tom had some questions for him... **Bill intervened, and was injured by Greyback before his Patronus could summon the twins to his aid. Tonks was patrolling nearby, on a new assignment given the school hols, and was able to hold the attackers at bay until Fred and George answered her call and arrived to help. There were no further injuries, however they were unable to prevent Ollivander from being taken. Remus threw a wobbly when he found out Tonks was in _another_ battle, poor chap.**

Bill and Fleur's wedding was put off for a couple of weeks until he was recovered. Certain family members were much impressed when Bill's scars failed to frighten off Phlegm, erm, Fleur. **They married shortly before school resumed in a beautiful and largely uneventful ceremony.**

**WE NEED BETRAYAL HERE...** (This and the ghosting would be the placeholder equivalents of Ron's walkout while on the camping-trip-that-would-not-end-and-made-me-sad.) 

**At the beginning of term, it was announced that the Muggle-raised and Muggle-born students will be required to wear badges marking them as such, and have to register their wands, regardless of age. Umbridge was _most_ keen to see to that. The spells put on their wands have suspicious echoes of limiters and traces, and Hermione was not best pleased. She kicked up a massive fuss, which (typically) accomplished bugger all. Nevertheless, Harry politely joined in. He can be good that way.**

**Harry, in fact, championed her cause so enthusiastically, that he went to Luna's father and gave the Quibbler an exclusive interview, in which he spilt all (he secretly prefers the colour green to red), trash talked Dolores and swooned rather childishly over his favourite Quidditch Players. Interviewer bias may have played a role in some or all of that, but certainly in the rhapsodising about Gwenog Jones. (While Ginny agreed with the statements in principle, she was a mite put out by the specifics.) Somewhere in there he probably decried the Ministry's methods for targeting the Muggle-born and -raised. Not that many noticed.**

**Naturally it didn't _help_ , but it ruffled a few feathers. Particularly the colour thing...**

**Ron, not entirely unreasonably, adamantly refused to support Hermione's campaign. He pointed out he has his family to worry about, and can't afford to endanger them by unnecessarily being seen to be a trouble maker, especially as what the Ministry was asking of her wasn't so bad and, face it, she wasn't being particularly successful anyway. To this day she continues to blame lack of _support_ primarily for that last, so while she could (sort of) understand his position, she couldn't forgive his lack of... well, _support_. They (frequently) manage to keep their interactions reasonably polite, but the cracks in their foundation are irreparable and will only get worse over time.**

**Severus completed their sixth year as the DADA instructor, but as the position is still cursed, he couldn't remain. Simples. Sluggy's lax attitude towards discipline in his Potions classroom meant a major accident in the Ravenclaw / Hufflepuff O.W.L. class seriously injured a number of students and permanently depilated Horace's own eyebrows. Far too proud to be seen in public like that, Merlin forfend, and given the increase in parental complaints, not to mention the worst Potions O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s average scores in over fifteen years (but probably mostly due to that first bit, really, priorities being as they are), Slughorn did not return for Hermione's, Ron's and Harry's seventh year, and poor Severus finds himself back in that thrice damned Potions classroom. _Once again_ , he's massively chuffed. His joy knows no bounds.**

The seventh year began with the Malfoy family in even more desperate straits than when we saw them in the canonical HBP 6th year. Draco has been given the stepped up 'kill Dumbles' suicide chore this year. He's done faffing about with cursed trinkets and poisoned oak-matured mead like last year. Severus has sworn the Unbreakable Vow to aid and abet or die. It's of little consequence really, as Albus had already conscripted him to similar service. Life is a bed of Fanged Geraniums. Particularly _toothy_ ones. Nothing gummy here but those damn trunks of Draco's, which are proving as frustrating to him in this story as they were in HBP. And again Draco is inexplicably happy to be as slow to repair it as he was in canon. (What? It worked for JKR...)

Harry's paranoia is ramping up. He may be right, Malfoy may in fact _be_ a suspicious wanker (No, really, he actually _is_ , but he's having a really shite life, what with the permanent Houseguests of Evil and all, and he's just all around falling apart at the seams. Positively _frayed_...), but goodness is Harry ever driving everyone bonkers with it. **Dealing with the restrictions and probable traces placed on Muggle-borns (like Hermione) and Muggle wards (such as Harry) means his snooping about is somewhat limited, but fortunately the Invisibility Cloak balances out some of that.**

 **The Ministry is pretty much laced with Voldemort's supporters. There are thankfully no camps for the Muggle-born, yet, and they are not barred from attending school. The Death Eater attacks aren't as violent or as widespread as they were in HPB, but they are steadily increasing in magnitude, and the writing's on the wall for the literate. Sadly those seem few and far between in the wizarding world.** (Personally, I always thought people were less likely to balk if the process had been a slower one, so here it is.) 

 

 

****

###  **Disclaimer:**

  
J.K. Rowling owns whatever you recognise. I may not be happy with some of canon, but damn if I don't sincerely think she's brilliant. I wouldn't care as much if she hadn't made some truly engaging characters. So all the props and then some to her, and a heartfelt thanks for letting me play with her world.

 

****

###  **A/N:**

  
Well. This isn't particularly fluffy or light. Sorry. But it's also not especially dark. Read, don't read - whichever, but _please_ don't flame. Tags are used for a reason. Do us both the kindness of taking them seriously.

Cheers,

Ginger


	2. Intro - And so it begins...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the scene is set...
> 
> Hermione and Severus are both hating life. One of them may have more justification for doing so.

In retrospect, a number of things had to come together in the (im-)perfect storm to so thoroughly upend his life. If any one of them hadn't occurred - not that they were _singularly_ so improbable, but their convergence and cumulative effect had proven _most_ unfortunate at the time - then he might have escaped... unfettered. But that wasn't the case, and he didn't. 

_Obviously._

Potter and Weasley were complete knobs. No surprise there then. (Hermione might weigh in with a different assessment, but then she wasn't asked.) It's hard to say where it all started. It can be said for certain that on the day in question Harry had once again exchanged hexes with Draco, things had escalated, Ron poured on the mockery most viciously and publicly, the three had been separated by the new DADA instructor, Professor Taylor, but left the confrontation frothing at the mouth, clamouring for more. Severus had been called to a Death Eater congregation, the Slytherins were left largely to their own devices for the evening, and knew it, and young Malfoy had set out in the foulest of moods to roam the castle. 

It did not bode well.

Perhaps the root can most precisely be found in the injudicious handling of Harry's attack on Draco the previous year. An assault that left the blond wizard _dangerously_ close to bleeding out ignominiously on the floor of a lavatory, and resulted in essentially no consequences for Potter and a muzzle for Malfoy. While that latter isn't entirely unwelcome, generally speaking, case specific it left the _victim_ of a particularly brutal attack feeling victimised yet again, and _that_ of all things by the people in authority whom he should have been able to trust to _protect_ him, and certainly to seek justice and _avenge_ him. This provided an unfortunate lesson that some animals are more equal than others. Aren't they just?

Harry could have thought twice about using an unknown spell on an adversary. He didn't. He could have been more apologetic or considerate after the fact. He wasn't. Dumbledore could have punished him suitably for it. Or _at all_ , really. Albus could have shown some understanding or compassion for the victim of such a brutal and traumatising attack instead of sentencing Draco to silence and virtually guaranteeing that his issues would foment ill will. But why should Albus change the tactics that had served him so well in the past? Because it worked out so well the last time? 

Indeed. 

That the youngest Weasley son had all the subtlety of a Muggle neon sign was also no secret. Coupled with an equally glaring lack of tact and empathy, the dolt had thought it fitting to have his sister charm his hair white-blond and then donned shredded and bloodied robes, transfigured Slytherin green, for his costume for the Halloween Ball the week before. If the costume provided any potentially interested witches with a peek at his Quidditch trained pecs or abs, all the better. In case anyone was unsure whom he was trying to depict, he made sure to have charmed a sign to float, flashing ostentatiously, above his head all night proclaiming "Malfoy" for the stunningly thick, of which there were more than a few in his house alone. 

Ron could also have listened to Hermione when she told him it was in dreadful taste and absolutely inappropriate. Even Harry had the decency to admit it wasn't quite right, with some semblance of shame for his act. Ultimately Harry agreed: what happened wasn't funny. 

"If it hadn't been for Snape..." Harry had tried.  
" _Professor_ Snape." Hermione corrected, pedantically, automatically.  
"The greasy git," Ron disagreed.  
"Then Harry could have _killed_ someone," she gritted.  
"Sure, but it was only _Malfoy_. So that's hardly a _bad_ thing, now is it?"  
"Fine," Harry answered, giving up ever convincing Ron as a bad job, "but then I'd be rotting in Azkaban. Would that be any better?" 

But instead Ron just made a few scathing remarks about Hermione's glaring lack of humour and blithely carried on, undeterred...

Minerva naturally could have stepped in at any time and sent him back to the Gryffindor tower. But once again she turned a blind eye to the antics of her little lions. Boys will be boys, after all. This broke no rules, what harm was there in a little fun? Severus shouldn't have been surprised, she'd done it often enough in the past. Or perhaps she never really understood how serious the infractions were which her tacit support enabled, or the very real damage they caused. Either way, she had form. _Decades_ of it.

And even then it might not have been _all that bad_ except for a very public 'show' number that Weasley put in. There he was, writhing on the dance floor, literally, to some frankly wretched piece, Weird Sisters be damned, in a pool of fake blood making Sonoroused 'boohoo' noises which echoed as though tannoyed through the room and rubbing ridiculously oversized (and glowing) fake tears from his eyes, product courtesy of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, cheers. That was clearly the point where things thoroughly left the rails. 

How _anyone_ thought that egregious taunt would go unanswered remains a mystery. 

\----

And so this Friday evening, a week after Halloween, finds Hermione trying to study, not unusually. After all, there are only seven more months until N.E.W.T.s. The common room, also not unusually, especially of a Friday night, was far too loud for this task. She retreats to her bedroom, only to discover that her roommates Fay and Georgina have invited some friends over and made her own room an even less tolerable alternative. They're conducting a rather boisterous girl talk session, interspersed with Quidditch stats, strangely enough, and some debate as to whether the use of thestrals or hippogriffs in place of brooms would improve the game, Georgina makes a rather convincing case for a Pegasus, and Hermione couldn't possibly get any peace there either. 

Annoyed, she returns to the common room and tries to make use of the study niche, only to have a bunch of fifth, sixth and seventh years approach her, asking her rather pointedly to take it elsewhere - they want the relative privacy of the space to... socialise. When she, somewhat pedantically, points out that the niche is for _studying_ , as the name _clearly_ suggests, and she wishes to use it for just this express purpose, a few of her housemates may call her uptight. Boring. An obstructionistic swot. Only they use unflattering synonyms, because "obstructionistic" has too many syllables, and they are... unkind. Lavender's voice is perhaps the loudest among them, unsurprisingly, but Parvati's can't be overheard either. It's a Friday evening and Hermione apparently has nothing better to do than study, when it comes right down to it. Swot.

It's nothing she hasn't heard before. Of course that doesn't make it any less painful. 

Summarily, she's sent packing to the library.

More than a little disgruntled, she bows to the pressure of her peers, gathers her things and, even more annoyed than before, makes her lonely way through the castle towards the library. 

It wouldn't have been so bad, simply yet another case of hurt feelings and nothing more, had she not had the misfortune of encountering Malfoy on the way. 

\----

 

Barely an hour later, Professor Snape is returning from a particularly brutal Cruciatus session. The Death Eater meetings are becoming... _worse_ , if at all possible; the pressure to join in the general... devolving is increasing. He's so had it with absolutely _everything_. 

Not that anyone cares. 

He has just dragged himself into the castle when the Bloody Baron, his chains flying behind him, comes rushing to get Severus and demands that he follow the ghost in the direction of the library. Immediately.

A student has been attacked.


	3. 11 07a Friday - Severus' Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Severus and assorted students_

### Warning:

Friday, 07 November has a little bit of dark. It doesn't get out of hand. _If the tags didn't scare you off, then you should be okay reading it._ That's a relatively cavalier statement, how reckless of me, but it's still probably a fair assessment. If you're okay reading what happens here, you're also probably fine with the rest of the story.

But _please_ take my tags seriously, don't read if it is absolutely not your thing, and kindly don't flame me. I seriously don't need any more negativity in my life.

Hope you enjoy reading anyway.

### 

  


_A student has been attacked._

He's exhausted. He's pain wracked. He's been through the bloody fucking wars tonight and still it refuses to end. He's running as quickly as he can. The bloody Bloody Baron isn't easily disconcerted and possibly more taciturn than Severus himself, yet he's practically screaming for Severus to follow him now. To _hurry_. To _come_. There's no mistaking the urgency here. Severus hasn't the breath left in his lungs to interrogate the ghost. Digging as deep as he can for effectively everything he has left, he runs. 

He skids inelegantly to a halt before the room in question, the brooding ghost hovering, pointing towards the closed door. He's trusting entirely to the Baron's assessment of the situation (whatever the fuck it may be), his own fearsome reputation, and what little he may still be able to call on of his own skills after tonight's trials. He's hoping it's enough. He's not at all sure that it is.

"The Headmaster?" he barely manages to ask, panting. The Baron just shakes his head 'No.' 

Drawing as deep a breath as he can force into his burning lungs, he straightens himself up to his full height and blasts the door open with a Dunamis and a resounding 'BANG!'

He will never forget what he sees as he storms into that room. Hermione Granger, one of his best students, clearly terrified witless, tied, arms behind her, _bound_ to _McGonagall's_ chair (no hidden message there), her shirt in shreds hanging open, the girl half exposed, face tear-streaked, lip split and bloodied, surrounded by five of _his_ boys. Only a single wand drawn amongst the lot of them, not a ward, Notice-Me-Not or Silencing Charm in place, thank the gods, all of them standing stupidly about, just watching her cry and Draco levitate a container of... blood? Five boys he's spent the last _six_ years helping to raise, and this is where they fucking end. 

_Unbelievable_.

He doesn't know whether to be insulted or simply relieved that they are so sublimely stupid. At least they are so ineptly evil that all hope is not lost. Certainly they can't be _practised_. Small favours.

A Langlock, silently cast, is his first wave of attack, a silent hex from these incompetents the least of his worries. A voiced Immobulus, easier that way than silent and he really hasn't the strength left for more, freezes the five of them in place and eliminates their usage of wands. He's still breathing heavily, but assumes they'll take that for rage. It would be, too, had he the breath for it. 

The container of... yes, indeed, blood... that Draco had suspended with a Wingardium Leviosa comes crashing down, Severus hadn't compensated for that, a first year's charm that both he and the boy have now botched, and splashes all over the room, drenching the young witch and wizard. Fucking marvellous. Bloody Nora. 

  


Quite.

Pushing his limits further, but appearances must, he manages a Cleansing Charm, his twelfth spell in moments, more than half of them silent, that at least sorts her, leaving Draco still dripping and most... unseemly. _Fitting_. Ruddy _bastard_. More 'ruddy' than 'bastard', of course, at the present. Still, it's a look on the boy that brings back unfortunate associations. He continues to have nightmares of Draco bleeding out on that damn floor. He never wishes to see anything like it again.

Thinking of things he never wishes to see again...

There's something about the sight of _her_ there that he finds particularly poignant, and for a long time to come, it will give him no peace. It wouldn't matter _who_ were in that chair, it would be _unacceptable_ , and he's about to show the boys just how very much so. But the sight of _her_ tied there, in her ill-fitting, over-sized school uniform and with her artless brassiere on display... She hasn't dressed to solicit attention, when has she ever? Beyond a doubt, she's always been the most physically modest of his students, no haggling over hem lengths with her. This is not the stuff of... questionable consenual fantasies. This is a young woman very obviously ripped from her daily routine, something like this the furthest thing from her mind. 

And he finds it particularly disturbing to note that she's definitely that: a young woman. She's matured into a curvaceous and attractive young woman, and his outrage at the boys for revealing this fact grows. Her brassiere, very visible beneath the repeatedly rent school blouse, is probably what strikes him the most in that moment, beyond the fact that he feels certain none present should ever have seen it. It's a cotton affair, with a bit of lace on the front, but otherwise purely utilitarian in design. The lace is slightly worn, with small holes visible along one cup. It's been improperly laundered at least once at some point, its beige softly discoloured from washing with a darker colour that bled. These aren't the clothes of seduction; they're laundry day knickers, just another source of humiliation, heaped on the rest. It speaks of a frugal, pragmatic nature and a desire for comfort she probably won't find again easily after _this_ any time soon. It makes him even angrier than he already was. 

He's about to let them feel that, too.

With a glare at the boys as deadly as any Avada, were looks imbued with such power, he crosses the room to Miss Granger and with a quick flick of his long fingers releases the clasp of his cloak, and swings it out to gently cover her. 

When a "Finite Incantatem" fails to release her from the ropes, he has a brief flash of panic that he has exhausted his magical reserves for the day. The alternative is that the boys have used real ropes. Bluffing it for the moment, partly because he just can't afford to believe he could actually be so vulnerable, he decides that _has to be_ the reason for it. He gives Draco an even dirtier look, pretending to deplore his resorting to Muggle methods, while secretly applauding them, and feigns indifference that she's left bound there. 

"Was any of that blood yours, Miss Granger?" 

She just shakes her head in reply. 

"Very well. I shall be with you in a moment." 

It would take at least five Sectumsempras to slice through the ropes and release her, and he doesn't trust himself enough to do that with sufficient precision that close to her flesh, her wrists, her waist, her ankles. Not tonight. Any other night it would be a non-issue. With the after-shocks of the Cruciatus, he simply can't. She looks like she'd collapse if he released her, and he isn't even sure he could catch her right now. This is going just swimmingly. 

Still, he's grateful that he was here to get this back under control. He doesn't like to think what would have happened had it been left up to the _Headmaster_.

He places himself between her and the Immobulused boys, drawing himself up to full height for effect. He finally takes a moment to assess the situation, and quickly takes a few decisions.

First and foremost, he knows other than himself, Draco, and Miss Granger, he will permit no one to leave here with _any_ memory of this evening's events. He will burn the image of _her_ , exposed and tied to that chair, out of their brains if it is the last thing he does. They will _never_ set foot in this classroom and think of it again. Echoes of an incident with the Marauders after his O.W.L.s fifth year come to mind. He will sort this now as he secretly would have wished someone had handled it for him then. And she won't have to ask for help, and she won't owe him for it. It's freely given. It's fitting and _proper_.

The Obliviations will be mostly for her sake, there's no question. But they will also keep this from spreading. Although that's also in her interest. If the world were just, this should see Draco and the other boys expelled. But of course it isn't, and it won't. Given the Unbreakable Vow he had made to help Draco, and the task the Dark Lord had set for the lad, it certainly wouldn't be prudent for Severus to demand that the boy be removed from the school. He has no idea how he'd convincingly justify it to the Death Eaters anyway. And Dumbledore will insist Draco stays. If the others are unable to speak of what occurred here, it can only help in keeping this quiet, and additionally suits Severus' sense of propriety. This shouldn't be happening at school; it shouldn't be happening _at all_! But _certainly_ not at _school_ , and students _shouldn't_ get away with this. 

He begins thinking about ways to make their lives a living hell. Fortunately, he can be _very_ creative.

Exuding fury, not an act, he strides to the door, robes swirling behind him. He's finally breathing fairly normally now. He turns once he reaches the hall, silently releases the Freezing Charm (there are witnesses to impress) on the closest boy and with a "Mr. Nott," commands him to come to him. The Langlock, he figures, will wear off eventually, and he frankly doesn't care when. Once the boy joins him in the hallway, he closes the door, giving them a measure of privacy, then he performs a spoken Notice-Me-Not and silent Muffliato, for the walls have eyes and ears and he can't take any risks. 

This is closely followed by a particularly brutal Legilimens, plumbing the depths to find not just how much Nott has contributed to this evening's debacle, his intent and relative guilt, but to thoroughly test his loyalties to the pureblood propaganda and the Death Eaters. Severus wouldn't ordinarily dare to perform a scan of this nature; it leaves too many traces. But he knows what he has planned next will cover his tracks, and so he takes full advantage of the opportunity. And if it is painful, all the better.

The Legilimency in turn is immediately followed by an Obliviate, that is followed by a Confunding to further confuse the issues, and then he summons his house elf Sunny and has him take the boy, unobtrusively, to his Slytherin dorm room. In a blink, they have Apparated away. No one will ever be the wiser, the boy least of all.

Once the boy is gone, Severus opens the door to the classroom, somewhat relieved that his spells are still holding despite his exhaustion, and repeats the process on the next lad. Six spells apiece, and four more boys to go. He has no idea how he's going to get through this. One at a time, he supposes. "Mr. Zabini." 

And so it goes. Finite Incantatem, silent. Come. Notice-Me-Not. Muffliato, silent. Legilimens. Obliviate. Confundo. Sunny. Next.

He hopes the Obliviates don't go completely tits up, but it's no coincidence that he calls the boys out in the order of what he presumes to be their ascending degree of guilt. The later Obliviates will probably be worse. Sloppier. He'd _so_ hate to maul the mind of a somewhat... innocent charge of his. Truth be told, tonight he'd happily fry the lot of them, but he's trying. He's truly trying. 

He's rather proud of the information he can glean with the Legilimency, despite his ragged state. This should indeed prove useful for the Order. Neither the Legilimens nor the Obliviates are particularly gentle. In fact, he's downright brutal and revels in it. Some of that is down to exhaustion. Some of that is due to his thoroughly appalled sense of justice and decorum. Make no mistake, he knows every single one of these boys will receive no punishment beyond what he himself metes out behind the scenes, and he has every intention of seeing to it that the punishment fits the crime. They'll pay. For starters, their headaches tomorrow will be monumental; he'll have to be sure to give Sunny instructions to confiscate all Headache Potions within the dormitories, and make sure Poppy knows the score.

Death by a thousand cuts? He's patient.

Mr. Zabini is followed by Mr. Goyle. Mr. Goyle is followed by Mr. Crabbe. Throughout the situation Severus has remained collected and assertive, the very vision of irate control. The impression given, he thinks, was both opportune and convincing. Draco is the only one left. This will probably require more theatre but less magic. But the scene has been set, and he's up to the task.

He thinks he knows now, more or less, what had transpired, at least as far as the other boys were involved. Draco came rushing into their room a little over an hour ago now, told them he had encountered Granger alone outside the library and had her Stupefied in McGonagall's classroom. Severus had been quite certain that bit of spite was all down to his godson; it appears his judgment is still spot on. The message was too on point for anyone else. Draco had then grabbed some ropes from his trunk (why for fuck's sake he had those is another matter entirely), and asked the other boys to come along. 

A quick stop by the kitchens, of all places, had yielded the blood, pig's it so transpires (that McGonagall should be forced to go without her black pudding was simply a bonus), and Draco had set out to recreate the imagery of Potter's Sectumsempra attack on him in the lavatory last year, and more recently the idiot Weasley's poorly conceived Halloween costume. Shirt torn, covered in blood, left in the Gryffindors' Head of House's classroom to find. Unquestionably in poor taste, but it needn't have gotten too out of hand.

Mr. Crabbe, however, had seen fit to bring along an arousal potion, that he had it _at all_ was an issue for great concern, and they had in fact administered it to the young woman. Fucking hell. Bleeding _wankers_. By Draco's hand. The utterly _wretched_ little toerag. There was virtually no chance anymore this would have ended as a relatively harmless prank. Not with a mob mentality in play. The situation had reached a tipping point.

Crabbe, his intentions were exceedingly clear, had held her mouth open for Draco and backhanded her roughly when she tried to squirm away as the potion was administered. Hence the split lip. Fucking arsewipe. _His_ life is about to become especially hellish.

Nott and, unexpectedly, Goyle had had no interest in an escalation. Nott had even actively tried to discourage the use of the potion, and had apparently been arguing with the others to just dump the blood and leave, right up until Severus had... interrupted. He would have to subtly reward the boy for that display of character later. 

Goyle was nothing but a follower. Draco was quite simply... unbalanced, a decided danger to those around him, on both sides of the war. Not explicitly malevolent per se, but a definite problem and in serious need of... solving. Zabini was both less obviously dangerous and less malignant than most of the others, but it seems he had inherited some of his mother's natural inclination towards... predation. He would need to be watched _far_ more closely. And Crabbe was frankly beyond saving.

Thirty-seven spells and counting. The Cruciatus after-tremors haven't ceased. On the contrary, they've become much worse, apparently exacerbated by his efforts.

 

When he re-enters the room, there's only Draco and the young woman left.


	4. 11 07b Friday - Dealing with Draco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... harshly.
> 
> _Severus, Hermione, and Draco_

_When he re-enters the room, there's only Draco and the young woman left._

The moans, undeniably erotic in tone, she had increasingly been making have progressed. The potion, no question. Her humiliation's complete. His isn't far behind. He had overlooked it, knowing he was Obliviating one and all. But she's not going to be thankful for the noises she's making now. Her embarrassment, in fact, is currently in evidence, her cheeks a flaming red, and shouldn't be were the potion properly brewed. Small mercies, perhaps that bought her some time earlier. He's uncomfortable just listening.

When she switches from moans to cries, demanding that he, they, anyone _fuck_ her, he flicks a Muffliato in her direction, more difficult to cast on others and definitely so when silently, raises his mental tally to thirty-eight spells, and sighs. He has no idea how much more he can do. She's begun wriggling underneath his cloak, and it's in danger of slipping down. He is sure the last thing he wishes to see is her straining against her bonds at the moment, and he moves to her back to close the clasp behind her neck like an enormous bib.

When his fingers brush her heated skin in the process, he snatches them away as though burned, mission only just accomplished. He's positive she just tried to lean into his touch.

He circles back wearily around her and crouches down to below her eye level, and speaking as gently as he can tells her, "Miss Granger, you have been given a potion. It and it alone is _solely_ to blame for your physiological response, it is involuntary and you should think no more of it. _I_ shall not." That's a lie, a kindness, certainly, but a blatant lie. Right now all he wants is a mental Scourgify. "The shame for that rests squarely on the shoulders of whomever forced it upon you." The look he casts in Draco's direction is positively hate-filled. She finds it completely unexpected but greatly appreciates it.

"I am quite certain it will pass harmlessly in time, but that process can be accelerated with the administration of activated charcoal." 

In response to her furrowed eyebrows, he smirks slightly, anticipating her question, even under _these_ circumstances. "A bezoar will not work, Miss Granger. The potion is not a poison and as such has no magical antidote. But the charcoal will help with the absorption, both minimising the effects and speeding your recovery. Are you comfortable with taking something I give you?" 

She nods desperately, cheeks crimson with shame, tears in the corners of her eyes. He summons the charcoal from his undetectably extended pockets (thirty-nine) and feeds her the tablets. Her lips are still moving and he is exceedingly thankful that he has no idea what she's saying, going by the depth of her blush response. She tries to nibble his fingers as he feeds her the tablets, and again he flinches away as though scalded. Still, he gives her shoulder a gentle, reassuring squeeze meeting her eyes, "Hang in there just a little longer. The worst is over, and this will pass soon."

He's irritated that he wasn't able to give it to her directly, taken orally the process is slowed, but he doesn't trust himself to place it properly in her stomach with his magic right now. With the exceptions of the Legilimens and Obliviates, he has avoided all spells that require precision tonight, and both of those have been rather ham-fisted by his standards. The boys are lucky his standards are so high, or a brain or two would have been reduced to gruel by now. 

Again he rises, stalks from the room, pauses at the door and releases Draco (forty). "Mr. Malfoy, join me." The tone is malevolent ice. Draco doesn't hesitate, and rushes to join him in the hallway, stumbling just a little on the way as his legs come to terms with moving after having been frozen immobile so long. This time Severus doesn't close the door. He leans it to, leaving it slightly ajar, so that she can hear what is being said and know for certain that she isn't being fed a different version later. Transparency, he feels, is the only approach in this foul solution. 

There's nothing to be done for it. A Notice-Me-Not is quickly managed. He considers for a moment if he can skip the Muffliato, but decides that he can't afford to get careless now. It's exceedingly tricky, as he needs to extend it to include the young woman inside the room for this one. And he needs to maintain her Muffliato as well. All silently. Forty-two, then. And onwards. 

He performs a much weaker, and silent, Legilimens on Draco than he had on the other boys, knowing he won't be Obliviating anywhere near as much, he can't afford for this one to be more than very superficial. It's no less strenuous thanks to the precision required. He's exhausted. He may have underestimated the magic necessary to sort the boy. But the scan is sufficient to see that this whole incident stemmed from an unmitigated fury towards Potter and Weasley, as expected, and that Draco had indeed originally intended for it to end with her in that chair for her friends and Head of House to find. In light of the severity of Draco's injuries last year, Severus isn't even convinced this can fairly be seen as an escalation of the boys' feud. Had it remained as initially conceived, that is. 

That it took on some _very_ ugly overtones, he supposes, is a natural consequence of the atmosphere _outside_ of the school. This is exactly what he himself was battling against with the adult Death Eaters, these boys' parents, only a few hours before. It is hardly surprising that events beyond the gates would spill over into the school. It also is no coincidence that it was Crabbe's son who had the potion or pushed this course of action. Vile man; increasingly loathsome boy.

And thinking of _loathsome_ boys... There are precisely four reasons Severus won't eviscerate the blond trembling before him. First and foremost, naturally, the Unbreakable Vow that means Severus' certain death and ultimate failure against Voldemort were he to do so. And _still_ he's sorely tempted; that says much. Then there's the fact Draco never intended for this to escalate. And the living nightmare his home life has become. And finally the improbable, albeit typically rude, warning Draco had issued to Potter and Granger at the Quidditch World Cup years ago to leave once the Death Eaters attacked. 

Their personal relationship would not have stayed his hand. 

But none of that means he's going to go easy on him.

He withdraws from Draco's mind and sets about the Obliviate. This too is less extreme, but more precise. He removes the memories of the young woman's squirming and her moans, he can't bear to leave them, Draco had no right to ever hear them, and his own application of the charcoal from Draco's mind. His Legilimency was light enough to have left no trace. Everything else will have to stand as is. He rounds on the boy in pure fury, lifting the Langlock (forty-five), "Would you care to explain your thought process here, if any." 

Draco is smart enough not to answer, and as the moment stretches, Severus attacks again, "What is the logical consequence of your actions?" Again he is met by silence. 

Severus picks up speed. "If you are expelled, how do you propose to complete the Dark Lord's task? And what a stroke of unparalleled _genius_ it was to have involved all of the other _boys_ ," it sounds more like something he'd like to scrape from the sole of his boot, "in this bit of flagrant stupidity. How utterly _magnificent_ to have the entire male upper class of our house potentially _decimated_ in one evening. No other house has ever dealt us as severe a blow as _you_ have managed in the course of what, _hours_? _Truly_ impressive. 

"And whatever shall we tell your parents? Ah, and what will you tell the Dark Lord when he asks why you are no longer of use to him? Do you think he will even give you time to answer? Do you _deserve_ it? He'll most likely Avada you on the spot. Crucio should be the least of your worries, I'd think, but then, you've become accustomed to it, I suppose... Perhaps you've come to like it? Shall we test that and see?"

Draco still says nothing, cowering miserably before his irate Head of House. Severus may as well have left the Langlock in place for all the difference it made.

"Very well, Mr. Malfoy. Clearly I can't allow that to happen. Any of it. So I shall do my level best to ensure that you are not cast from the school on your oh so prominent arse. Not that you are deserving of this effort. Your actions this evening have been _beyond_ reprehensible; the sight of you _disgusts_ me. If you have issues with Potter and Weasley, I fully expect you to sort them, _with_ them, not innocent thirds, regardless of blood status, and I _damn_ well expect you not to get _caught_. 

"We haven't enough house points for me to remove to ever make myself clear. And I refuse to let the house suffer for _your_ incomparable stupidity. _You_ have detention with Filch _every_ Saturday night until the end of the school year. But you may start with all day tomorrow and Sunday, just to get into the swing of it. If that still proves insufficient to moderate your behaviour, I'll happily increase it at a later date. Perhaps tack on an eighth year solely to serve the term of your punishment? Hmm? 

"And if I _ever_ see you behaving in an untoward fashion towards a female classmate again, Mr. Malfoy, the pieces in which I shall leave you will be _so_ small and _so_ scattered, they'll never recover more than a _thimbleful_. Have I made. Myself. Clear?"

He has a problem. Several, really, but right now it occurs to him that he needs to find a way to ensure that when the others wake tomorrow with their Legilimency induced headaches, Draco won't be left wondering why _he's_ been spared. Arguably, and easily at that, the boy is the one who should be the _worst_ off both in terms of what he deserves and the treatment he would expect from his Head of House. Severus needs to cover up the discrepancy, and additionally he has no desire to let Draco think he's going to walk away from this unscathed. 

He also has a dangerously low level of reserves left. A Stupefy would be easier, but stunning is unfortunately out of the question, as it will just prolong this débâcle, and he desperately needs to free the young witch and get to the Infirmary soon. Drawing on his last reserves, he opts for a non-verbal Levicorpus, hoping the fact it's a spell of his own devising means it might prove less taxing to his magic. In a blink he's suspended the boy upside down by his ankle and then swung him solidly into the nearest wall. A resounding and decidedly satisfying 'thwack' or three later, he releases the boy with a Liberacorpus to crumple into a heap on the floor. Forty-seven. And counting. 

"You will return to your room, and do _not_ speak of the events of this evening to anyone," he virtually hisses at the boy as Draco struggles to his feet. With any luck he'll have a concussion to show for it. And a shiner. "It is perhaps your only chance to remain in these halls. You may rest assured the Headmaster already knows what transpired, the walls have eyes and ears," he looks about significantly, indicating the portraits, although they are merely one of many methods by which Dumbledore would come to know of this, Severus himself not least amongst them. No need to tell that to the boy. 

"I have Obliviated the others. The have no memory of the events of this evening. _None at all_ , and you are not _ever_ to discuss this with them, or anyone _else_ unaware of the facts. Your Oath." The boy complies. Magic flares. His fortunately. Severus continues, "There will be repercussions, make no mistake. The less this is spoken of, the more this can be swept under the rug, the safer you will be. _Do_ try to minimise your stupidity towards this end. 

"I shall do what I can for you." With that, he points his wand at the boy and unleashes a particularly brutal Scourgify. As a spell conceived for scouring pots and pans, it's not the least bit pleasant when turned unchecked on human skin. The blood is gone, the lad thoroughly pink and abraded. Forty-eight. Severus is barely still standing, but _that_ was very much worth it. 

"Now go. Get out of my sight."


	5. 11 07c Friday - Freed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Severus and Hermione_

He takes a deep breath, calming himself before returning to the poor woman still tied to the chair in the classroom. 

Her wriggling has clearly progressed to writhing, and he wishes desperately that he could just ask her to stop, but then that was rather the point - that she _couldn't_. Damn. He tries to ignore it. He's only moderately successful, but his poker face is a marvel, and they shall get through this, too.

He walks behind her and picks briefly at her knots. Unfortunately, they aren't getting anywhere quickly. Damn and damn again. He sighs and looks around. On the floor between the seats he spies an abandoned quill; he crawls awkwardly after it and transfigures it into a small knife. Forty-nine. 

He didn't even have the energy to summon it. Crawling about on the floor is just so... _dignified_. Then he catches himself thinking that, and after everything this young woman's been through tonight, that he should find such a thing embarrassing leaves him at a bit of a loss. He shakes his head at himself and sets to sawing at her bonds. 

While he does so, he begins to explain things to her. "You heard Miss Granger?" She nods in response, and her mouth is still moving, but given her writhing, he's not at all sure that anything she has to say is fit for his ears. He decides he should clarify that first. "I have placed a Muffliato around you; I believe you are familiar with the spell." And isn't _that_ fact a source of annoyance... Damn Potter to the nine circles of Hell. 

She nods. 

"Neither Mr. Malfoy nor I were able to hear you, and the few memories he had of... of your... reactions, your... _vocalisations_ before I placed it, I have Obliviated. He has _no_ memory of you so... indisposed." The look she shoots him is _exceedingly_ grateful. He can't imagine deserving it.

"I didn't wish to silence you without speaking to you first. Should you find the... comments," he sounds unsure of his word choice but pushes on, "you are making to be a source of discomfort to you, I'm prepared to apply a Silencio, but _only_ at your express request. I didn't want to take away your voice. Is this current solution... adequate, or..." Once more, she nods. 

"Very well. I shall have your arm freed briefly. We shall then agree that you will tug on my lapel should you wish for me to lift the Muffliato. Acceptable?" She nods again. He's discovering this evening that as long as students don't actually _speak_ with him, they get along famously. He sighs. 

"Are you able to follow what I'm saying despite the potion's effects?" She nods in reply. "Very good." 

He pauses a bit and then resumes. "I apologise for not explaining to you about the Privacy Charm before. I'm sure it would have spared you some anxiety, but I needed to get the... _boys_ managed first. Additionally, there is unfortunately the need to maintain a certain... image. Once again, I apologise if that prolonged your discomfort." 

Her first wrist is now free, and he rubs it gently to encourage the blood flow and ease the pain. He has no desire to exacerbate her problems. He is _unimaginably_ tender. It reminds her of the way she's seen him handle certain delicate potions ingredients, and she's never been treated with such care. For years now, she's known that he is on their side, but she never would have thought he could prove so considerate or caring. She's a bit ashamed that she has underestimated him. 

And then she's trying, _hard_ , to focus on _that_ aspect, instead of the feel of his hands... She doesn't have much luck. His fingers feel _fabulous_ ; his touch is... simply _amazing_. She's only half sure that thought is due to the potion. Possibly even less. Now where she'd like him to _put_ those magnificent hands of his, or just what she'd like him to do with them is almost definitely thanks to the potion... _Gods_.

Her eyes roll up. She inhales sharply. Her eyes squeeze shut against the thoughts and sensations. She _moans_... And promptly dies of embarrassment. 

She's knows he can't hear it, but she's _very_ glad he's behind her and can't see her face, because there's no mistaking her expression. She bites her lip, with some force, trying to shake it off. She tries again to corral her thoughts; that way lies madness.

Endeavouring not to notice the signs of her inner struggle, Severus concentrates on his task. He sets to work on her next wrist, cursing himself silently for not freeing her wand hand first. Sawing, sawing. 

That is until she starts trying to stroke his hair, and then he curses himself for not attending to her ankles first instead. He's off his game. He takes a steadying breath and moves further to the side, trying to use the chair to shield himself. His escape is hindered by his need to work on her wrist, and he's not completely successful in avoiding her free hand. He does his best to ignore it. Class with her Monday should be an absolute delight if this keeps up. But maybe he won't live that long and be spared _that_ particular trial. He lives in hope.

"As you've no doubt surmised, I deliberately let you hear my... conversation with Mr. Malfoy so you would know where things stand. There are a number of aspects in play here. First and foremost, I would like to acknowledge that I am almost certain there will be no official punishment for the... transgressions tonight, and certainly none to the extent that there _should_ be. I realise this. I understand the reasons for this and for the most part even accept them. But I still do _not_ find the situation palatable, and do not ask that you should either." 

The look of surprise she gives him makes him wonder how much of an ogre the students take him for. Stupid question. But she must be plenty surprised indeed, for it to override the lascivious looks she'd begun giving him. And still, she can't seem to stop chewing on her lower lip enticingly.

"With the climate such as it is outside of the school, the Headmaster is not inclined to... punish certain infractions as he perhaps... _should_."

She struggles to withdraw her hand from his hair, when all she really wants to do is knot her fingers in those fine strands, pull him to her and never let go... He's doing his level best to ignore her, recognising sarcasm and insults will in no way cause her to stop, dosed as she is. He opts for denial as his approach.

He's finally freed her second wrist, and expects that she'll rub the feeling back into it herself. It's only then that he realises the extent of the effects of the potion. She's got even less control over her body than he does over his, her... undulations evidently worse than his tremors. Any hope he had of giving her her wand to cut through the rest of the ropes fades. Again he lightly massages her bruised skin, his touch soft, but hardly _soothing_ from her vantage point. 

Thinking it will feel reassuring for her, even if it isn't currently all that useful, when he rises to change position to better free her legs, he picks the wand off the nearby desk it's lying on and tucks it into the pocket of her robes with a pat. He sighs again and gets to work on the rope around one of her ankles. Somehow he senses he should save the rope at her waist for last. The last thing he needs is her gyrating in his face. 

She can't help wondering why he hasn't just sliced through her bonds with a spell, but he is undoubtedly serious about the progress he's making and she thinks working far harder than a spell would require of him. She trusts he has his reasons, she just can't fathom what they'd be. And of course, it doesn't hurt that she doesn't particularly _mind_. He's welcome to continue this for quite some time, in fact; she's in no hurry _whatsoever_. He looks so bleeding _intense_ crouched there... The damn potion again. 

He calls for Sunny and asks the elf to begin setting the room to rights. Again she wonders that he didn't deal with this himself, but it's just a passing thought as her fingers return to running through his hair with both hands now. He closes his eyes as she begins massaging his scalp and keeps working, his discomfort at the present situation far outweighing any pleasure to be derived from the touch. That is until her nails drag lightly across his skin and he lets out an involuntary hiss. 

His eyes fly open in time to watch as the remaining pig's blood is vanished and the furniture is righted. It helps call to mind what he's trying to accomplish, and he redoubles his efforts. Soon there's no trace of what happened here but this small vignette. Hermione, still fastened to Professor McGonagall's chair, her inscrutable Potions Professor kneeling at her feet, sawing resolutely away at her bonds. She really, _really_ rather likes the sight of him there. Damn that potion.

Before the elf leaves, the Professor asks him to remove all Headache and Pain Relieving Potions from Slytherin. She can't begin to think what to make of it. It's more than passing odd.

Her ankles freed and massaged, and her ragged inhale as he did _that_ won't prove _at all_ embarrassing to either of them after the fact, they're both sure, he sets about removing the last rope attached to her waist, fervently wishing he couldn't so clearly smell her arousal while doing so. He tells himself it's merely biology, nothing worthy of note; part of his mind might even be listening. 

Her small hands return to his scalp. They're unrelenting. It's taking every bit of self control she can muster not to pull him into her lap. _Face first_. She swallows and fights to keep her hands from latching onto his ears for that purpose. If he had properly thought this through, he'd have attacked this last rope from behind the chair, but he's too knackered to think straight. 

When her dainty fingers start caressing his face, he takes another deep breath and keeps cutting. When they move from his cheeks to his brow, he closes his eyes and keeps going. When she shifts from the sensitive skin of his eyelids to stroking his nose, he reminds himself she can't help her reactions. When one hand begins to trace his lips, when her thumb begins to seek, _demand_ entrance, he finally pauses his work to take her hands in both of his and try to put a stop them. 

As gently as he can, he takes each of her delicate hands in one of his and removes them from his face. He even manages to keep all reproach from his voice as he tries to encourage her, "Miss Granger, hang in there just a little..." And then he makes the fatal mistake of lifting his head and meeting her eyes. He _realises_ it's a mistake even as he does it, but before he can look away he's seen her face and freezes. 

The concupiscence, avarice and only barely bridled desire he registers are no surprise after a dose of a variant of Liquid Lust. A _shock_ , naturally, but no _surprise_. It's not a look he wanted to associate with _her_ , certainly not directed at _himself_ , and he'd have been happier not seeing it. He would, however, have expected to see any or all of that had he thought about it. He's really just not thinking clearly at the moment. 

It's the touch of softness, the hint of wonder that arrests his movement and leaves him staring for what feels like an age. The _longing_...

"...longer." He wishes he'd managed that without the all too obvious pause or catch in his voice. He's only glad he skirted the Freudian slip. Narrowly, to be sure.

The problem is the apparent sincerity of those gentler notes. That does't happen. It _cannot_ happen. No known version of Liquid Lust can produce anything like it, much like Amortentia can compel an obsession but certainly not _love_. And if _Amortentia_ couldn't, _no_ love potion would. It was Hector Dagworth- _Granger_ , in point of fact, relation to the witch before him unknown, who had proven as much. Potions don't, _can't_ create sincere _feelings_. 

Severus is a dyed in the wool Potions Master. He's had an abiding interest in them since childhood. He can't help wondering _what_ is in the potion to have generated that look, because it's... something else. It's a bit of genius, frankly. Throughly inappropriate between them, but... No, he shakes it off, _thoroughly inappropriate_ full stop. 

Amortentia is an abomination. Liquid Lust, naturally, even more so. As far as he's concerned, they should both be banned. But the imbecilic adulation the so-called Love Potion produces means all but the most wilfully blind see the sham for what it is. It's nothing _real_. 

This, _this_ is a mockery. 

What makes it worse, insufferably so, is he's _never_ been looked at like that before. He can't even imagine it. 

Of course, _now_ he doesn't need to imagine the look, merely the circumstances that might lead to it. 

Fucking hell. 

It leaves him feeling stunned. Angry. Uncomfortable. _Robbed_. Not. Best. Pleased...

If he thought the sight of her miserable and crying in that chair would haunt him, _this_ will be far worse. 

He's startled out of his thoughts as his knife suddenly jerks free, the resistance gone, the last restraint cut. Too late it occurs to him that having her no longer... restrained might cause completely different problems. As she begins to fall forward, his hands close around her upper arms, holding her in place. He rights her in the chair, bracing her there.

"Miss Granger, can I rely on you to..." She can't help it. She can't help it. She can't help it. He removes one hand to reflexively pinch the bridge of his nose, breathes a sigh of relief when she doesn't take it as an invitation to squirm from his lightened grasp and changes his approach. "Do you think you're sufficiently recovered for us to make our way to the Infirmary?"

Hermione understands his plight all too clearly but thinks she can keep from doing anything that will embarrass either of them _too_ much. At least not more than she has already, that is. She nods.

Belatedly, he _really_ isn't thinking particularly well tonight, it occurs to Severus that he doesn't know for sure that she's understood a single thing he's asked. She just keeps nodding. He decides he needs to test it before he can risk letting her out of that chair, for both their sakes. 

Seemingly apropos of nothing, he poses a question, inspired perhaps by recent thoughts, "Which of the following wouldn't you put in Amortentia: Ashwinder eggs, Pearl Dust," she looks at him like he's mad, but he continues unperturbed, "powdered Moonstone, Alihotsy leaves..." And now she's grinning like a mad woman and shaking her head, apparently understanding his concern.

"Very well, shall we see if you can stand?"

A smirk firmly in place on her face, she returns to nodding. He finds himself returning the smirk, just a little. 

He helps her gingerly to her feet, but is forced to acknowledge that she won't make it to the Infirmary without help. He slings her arm carefully over his shoulders and wraps his around her slight waist to help keep her upright. He considers whether or not he can break the rules again and ask Sunny to take her there. He knows he himself is in no shape to be Apparated. _He_ will have to make it under his own steam. 

The remains of the ropes disappear, as does his transfigured knife, and the chair she had been sitting on suddenly moves back into position behind the teacher's desk. Sunny is still close, even if he can't be seen.

Severus isn't even sure if he can chance turning her over to Poppy unsupervised yet. He's quite confident he knows what Albus will want to do, he has his own cover to maintain, and the instant Potter and Weasley hear of this, there will be no containing the situation any longer. He's not honestly certain he wants it contained, but Potter's histrionics are equally not a solution. He's so tired of all this.

He can't afford to let this get out of hand, and he's juggling too many balls at once. He has no idea how to keep them all in the air. He laughs at himself - with a Wingardium Leviosa, of course. Except that he's already dropped the ball on _that_ particular charm once tonight... He scoffs. Fucking firstie would have done better. He isn't even remotely amusing. 

He sighs. He can't use a Mobilicorpus to get her to the Infirmary. He'll have to try carrying her. He hopes he doesn't collapse en route. 

"Come, Miss Granger, let's get you to Madam Pomfrey."


	6. 11 07d Friday - On the Way to Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Severus and Hermione_

_He can't use a Mobilicorpus to get her to the Infirmary. He'll have to try carrying her. He hopes he doesn't collapse en route._

" _Come, Miss Granger, let's get you to Madam Pomfrey._ " 

He'd love to immobilise her, but he's not sure he can. And he's not really sure he _should_ even if he _could_ given what she's just experienced. Instead he wraps his cloak more tightly about her and takes her ever so carefully in his arms. She's light; he's lucky. For once. 

He wonders fleetingly if he's putting her at risk by not having Sunny take her on ahead, but knows he's really only to do that when he can't solve it any other way. Such as getting four cretins undetected into their dormitory. Actually, that was a blatant misuse he was never supposed to have resorted to, but he was simply desperate. It was crowd control, that's all there was to it. He'll sort it later, if he survives.

Resigned, he sets off. They've made it this far together tonight, and he somehow knows they'll make it the rest of the way. Her condition is not critical, on the contrary - what she really needs is _time_ for it to pass, and he thinks, he hopes, he will be able to offer her some comfort, sadly combined with more damage control, in the minutes to come.

He hates his life more than a little. 

Before things go any further, he'll voice his appeal, so she isn't left doubting his words in retrospect. Cards on the table. How _Gryffindor_ of him. He finds just the _thought_ of it irritating. "Miss Granger, I've stated very clearly how I feel about the events of this evening and what I believe will happen to the boys in response. I stand by that. Nevertheless, I have a request to make. 

"Please know that I do not make it lightly, but I very _respectfully_ ask that you _not_ speak of what has transpired with _anyone_ else _until_ you have spoken to the Headmaster. Please consider coming to a decision with him on how this should be managed. _Please_. I am well aware this is an ask too far, but please, _consider_ it."

She actually has no problem in the least with that request, and is reasonably certain that's not the potion speaking, she's just unsure how to convey that silently, so she simply nods in agreement. She would probably have wished to speak to either Professors Dumbledore or McGonagall before Harry and Ron anyway. In fact, she's not at all sure she is ready to deal with the inevitable problems _that_ talk will cause. She'd gladly put it off. Possibly indefinitely, now that she thinks about it. 

What she suspects she _does_ have a problem with is what Professor Snape seems to anticipate will come of her speaking with the Headmaster. But she's a rational person, well, sometimes, and has no desire to put the cart before the thestral. One step at a time. While planning ahead feverishly, of course. _Naturally_.

And if her acquiescence to his request in any way makes her Professor... happier, although that doesn't seem to be the right word for it, after what _he's_ done for her tonight, all the better. She's also quite sure she'd feel that way without the potion. But oddly she gets the feeling he's conflicted. As if he'd almost prefer for everything to explode. And then as if hearing her thoughts, he continues.

"Know also that any decision he would have you make will probably not be satisfactory to you. If that is the case, you may rely on me for assistance. I give you my _word_ , they will _not_ go unpunished. It may not be obvious, it certainly won't be publicly recognised for what it is, that's impossible particularly as the majority of them have no recollection of the events in question, but it _will_ happen. 

"I assure you the Legilimency and Obliviations I performed were _quite_ painful; not a one of them won't wake with a splitting skull tomorrow. That's only the beginning."

And suddenly she understands both his request to the elf to remove the potions and a bit about how he works. On reflection, she isn't sure that she wouldn't prefer _his_ approach to dealing with this to the _usual_ methods. The fewer people that know about what happened, the more comfortable she feels. The less embarrassed. 

_Right now_ she's feeling _exceedingly_ embarrassed. And more than a little lustful, heavens help her. Ergo much of the embarrassment, of course. She tries not to blush just thinking about it. Or _him_. 

She nibbles her lip and steals a look at him. 

There's sweat beading on his brow as they take the stairs, and she has a sudden onset of all too gender-typical panic that she's too heavy, before realising that he simply isn't doing all that well. No offence. She can tell he's quite obviously wiry and muscled, hmm, unexpectedly rather fit really, all considered, clutched as she is against his body... She licks her lips unconsciously. Well, _that's_ obviously the potion talking. It doesn't change the truth of the thought, but it's not like her to think it. Probably. It's frightfully hard to tell at the moment.

She tries to snuggle against his chest unobtrusively. She may even have accomplished it without writhing. Much. Yes, she's reasonably confident it was sort of a tucking herself better into his hold, and not an assault on his person as such. Whether he'd see it that way is another matter.

She thinks he may even have winced at the contact, and resolves to try to control her impulses more. Because _that's_ going so well...

Focus? So objectively she knows she's fairly skinny, sure, you know, curvy, but quite thin, and she doesn't think weight is the issue here... She hasn't the faintest idea why any of that mattered anymore... 

She can feel tremors going through him, they're getting worse, and she wonders what has happened to him. They don't feel like good tremors. What on earth are 'good' tremors?? She's going to hex Malfoy into next week. Later. On some level she thinks she should be more concerned, but she just can't seem to focus. 

There were multiple instances of unusual behaviour on his part in the past hour, and now she's wondering about the reason for them. Where was he before? And what's going on with him? Have his eyes always been that dark? They're absolutely beautiful...

"I had to leave Mr. Malfoy's memories of the majority of this evening intact. There will be repercussions, and he will need memories for those to make sense. Additionally, the threat he represents is unfortunately greater without those memories. Do you follow? There would be no... reason for him not to attempt to repeat his actions. The motivations for it would remain unchanged."

She nods fractionally in response. She certainly has no desire for a repeat of tonight. Well... _No_. Not _that_ part anyway. She doubts she'd be so fortunate to be rescued as promptly a second time. She fights down a wave of panic deciding she'll suffer Malfoy's awareness of it if it increases her safety. The effects of the potion are clearly letting up, the charcoal is obviously working, because when she thinks of _him_ now, she thinks along the lines of putting his bollocks in a vice. Or hexing them off. Probably both. That's a far cry from the image, what, forty-five minutes ago? Certainly a relief.

She tries to picture what the Professor might mean by repercussions. She suspects that's complicated. Naturally there are always the interests of the Order to consider...

"I can only apologise again for that. Had I been able to remove them and still guarantee a satisfactory result, believe me I would have." She takes him at his word, and wonders when he has last apologised to anyone else, let alone as often as he has done in the past few minutes to her. And how often has he said 'please'? 

And then she tries very, _very_ hard not think of him begging, or on his knees before her. Preferably both. Or neither. She means _neither_... How in the world is she going to face him in class again?

"I also ask that if there are issues with him because of this going forward, that you not hesitate to let me know. Come to me with the problem, and he _will_ be dealt with as best I am able within the... constraints both of my roles bring." She smiles a bit wanly and nods. "But you shouldn't underestimate my creativity. Or my determination." She's happy to take him at his word. She _very_ much likes the sound of that, and now finds herself battling to keep her smile from showing just how much. 

She chews her lip instead.

She has no doubt this has really gotten to him, and she would never have anticipated the strength of his reaction. She feels safe with him. There's no bluster here only to go on to make things worse for her. From him she senses serious intent. No idle threats. 

And it's not somehow all about _him_ , which makes for quite the change to what she's used to. He's made some promises, and she's sure he means to quietly keep them, without a single word of thanks or praise directed his way. And she _is_ incredibly thankful. She doesn't think she'll ever forget the sight of him storming into that classroom and taking down that knot of snakes in one go. She's never felt more... relieved than she does right now.

Somewhat overcome, she finds herself nestling her face into the crook of his neck and wrapping her arms around him in something that can only be called a hug. Unexpectedly, they both find themselves getting a bit of comfort from the gesture. He pats her head gently. Fortunately the potion doesn't ruin it for them. 

"Miss Granger, there's one last thing I can do for you. If in a few days you should find yourself too plagued by the events of tonight, I can offer to Obliviate any aspects you find... too much. _You_ do not have to keep those memories while the boys escape scot-free. I can be _incredibly_ precise and very gentle, and I can guarantee you won't wake to a migraine like some." She actually smirks at this. "But consider it carefully, because there is some safety to be had from realistically assessing threats. You shouldn't wish it _all_ gone. But that is entirely _your_ decision. 

"If you wish for me to lift the Muffliato..." She shakes her head desperately 'No.' "Very well. Remember, just tug my lapel should that change." She smiles at that, and it isn't wan or uncertain. She sees humour in this. She's hardly forgotten the arrangement in the past few minutes, but she finds his nervous concern somehow touching. 

And with that they find themselves at the doors to the Infirmary. He kicks them open and begins screaming for "Poppy!" and soon Madam Pomfrey bustles on the scene. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading and the kudos, and I especially appreciate the comments. I really like hearing your thoughts. 
> 
> Hope you're enjoying the story so far.


	7. 11 07e Friday - The Collapse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Severus, Hermione, Poppy and Albus_

_They find themselves at the doors to the Infirmary. He kicks them open and begins screaming for "Poppy!" and soon Madam Pomfrey bustles on the scene._

"My goodness, this racket! Whatever is the matter?" 

He carries his petite burden over to the second to last bed in the far corner of the otherwise empty room, small mercies, and gently lays her down. At the latest when Madam Pomfrey removes his cloak from around Miss Granger's shoulders and sees what is left of her blouse, the Mediwitch has a far too clear notion of what may have happened to her. "Severus?" Poppy's wand is drawn, and she's casting diagnostic spells as she looks over her shoulder at him.

"Poppy, please check that she hasn't been... interfered with. I'm reasonably certain I arrived on time, but... there's still a risk. I wasn't... I wasn't exactly up to snuff." He looks shaky. Exceedingly pale. After the obscuring darkness of the hallway, Hermione finds it all the more noticeable now.

Poppy turns back to him with a relieving, "She's untouched," and he feels the last scraps of fight go out of him. He didn't realise just how much he'd been hanging on to hear that bit of reassurance. The Legilimency was a good indication that he'd been on time, ordinarily it would have practically been proof, but in his current state, he just couldn't be certain he hadn't overlooked anything the boys may have desperately wished to hide. He couldn't afford to trust to it without external confirmation. 

"Thank the gods. Please see to her. I'll call Albus." And with that he crosses to the fireplace, throws in a pinch of glittering powder from the pot on the mantle and calls for the Headmaster. "Albus! Albus! Are you there? Still awake?"

After a moment the response comes, "Severus, dear boy, what is it?"

"I'm in the Infirmary with Poppy and Miss Granger. There's been an... incident. It's under control for the moment, no one is seriously injured, but your attention will soon be required. Would you please come through at your earliest convenience?"

"Of course, of course. I'll be with you momentarily." And with that the Floo connection closes and Severus turns back to the room.

Poppy has had a chance to examine the student in the meantime. Her Finite Incantatem fails to give the young woman her speech back because she mistakes the Muffliato for a Silencio and so it misses its mark. Hermione would lift it herself, but still finds her occasional moans, although thankfully subsiding, rather embarrassing. 

Madam Pomfrey sets about healing the abrasions on her wrists and ankles, with an intensely disapproving shake of her head. A whisper of a spell ghosts across Hermione's lip, and she feels her skin knit back together. The Matron's gentle smile as she performs this feat leads Hermione to think the results were more than satisfactory. It's followed by potions and the application of a balm that sends warmth coursing through her body, and soon she's feeling much better. 

But then they make a discovery Hermione finds rather puzzling. There's blood on her side, on her ribs and waist, and a fair bit of it at that. She knows Professor Snape had cleaned her up and none of the pig's blood remained, and yet here she lies, bloodied again. Madam Pomfrey examines her more closely, but doesn't see any wounds. Echoing Professor Snape's earlier question, she asks the young woman, "Is this blood yours, Miss Granger?"

She just shakes her head 'No.'

"Were you injured?" 

This time the witch hesitates before shaking her head again. When she's able to speak, Madam Pomfrey makes note to return to that question. 

And then a bunch of things happen more or less at once. Professor Snape returns to their side of the room from the fireplace with an "Albus will be here shortly."

Madam Pomfrey merely nods as she continues her search for the source of the blood on Hermione's torso. Professor Snape, however, starts wavering back and forth, and Hermione tugs ferociously on Madam Pomfrey's apron, pointing wildly over the Matron's shoulder to her Potions Professor. Madam Pomfrey turns just in time to see the Professor begin to collapse, and with a shouted "Severus!" she runs over to him, again casting a slew of diagnostic spells. When she reaches him and grabs at his robes in an only moderately successful attempt to break his fall, her hand comes away crimson as he crumbles to the floor and the mystery of the source of the blood on Hermione is solved. 

It was his. All his.

"Great Merlin!" the Matron exclaims, not liking the results of her tests at all, "What have you two been up to?"

Hermione shrugs, still unable to answer, and largely incapable of explaining her Professor's state even if she could.

"He's clearly suffering from the after effects of the Cruciatus, from the look of him I shouldn't like to know how many rounds. He's obviously been tortured, and his magic is almost completely depleted. What on earth was he _doing_?" and with that the Matron casts a spell that removes his robes, frock coat and blood-soaked, previously white dress shirt, revealing a mess of slashes across the man's pale chest and begins to work furiously to close them. It seems completely incongruous to see his soiled clothes fold together neatly and float down slowly to the chair nearest the half-dead man sprawled out on the floor and the frenzied healer. 

"Accio Blood Replenishing Potion, Dittany!" She's got a Healing Charm or ten to add to the mix, and transforms into a flurry of activity.

Hermione sinks back onto the bed, absolutely appalled that _this_ man, in _his_ shape, had come to her rescue. Had run off her tormentors and patiently knelt, sawing through the ropes that held her while he, what, slowly _bled to death_ from the look of it? He's mad! _Insane_! It made no sense at all. And still he had taken care of her, carried her all the way up here when she couldn't walk, all without a thought for himself. After he'd been _tortured_. And she'd been feeling rather sorry for herself, poorly done by and her treatment couldn't hold a candle to his. Good gods! She has no words for this, even if she could speak...

Professor Dumbledore has arrived by now, quickly takes in the scene, not missing Hermione's shredded, blood-streaked top and teary eyes. "Miss Granger, you are unharmed?" She nods in response, and he turns his attention to the more critical matter of his Potions Master splayed on the floor before him. "I thought no one was seriously injured?" He applies a Mobilicorpus to lift the man slowly onto the empty bed beside Hermione's as the Matron works on him feverishly.

"Severus may have understated his own condition. _Again_. He's been through the wringer. I've never seen it this bad. The wounds have been far worse, beyond question, but his _magic_... his magic is almost completely depleted, and I haven't a clue _why_. That just doesn't typically happen. And the girl is _mute_ , and I've no idea what they've been through _at all_." 

The Headmaster turns to Hermione and asks, "Miss Granger, in light of the seriousness of the situation, would you be willing to let me use Legilimency on you? I assume you know what that is." 

She nods immediately, emphatically, eager to help. He comes over to her, makes eye contact, and she can almost instantly feel the brush of something foreign among her thoughts. And just as quickly, he's gone, little information required to help Madam Pomfrey understand what's going on. He's slightly pinked, and she assumes the potion is still colouring her thoughts. Fortunately, the adrenaline rush caused by the scene before her seems to be helping to get _that_ under control. It was _far_ worse before.

"Oh. Oh, dear. Well yes, that explains it. We'll speak in short order, my dear. I'm afraid Professor Snape was right, I'd like to talk to you about that, and I'm sorry you went through it." 

And then he turns to the Matron and starts explaining, "He returned to the castle somewhat over an hour ago now, I felt the wards. The Cruciatus tremors were apparently evident and considerable even then," Hermione can't believe he could pick _that_ detail out of her memory, and yet she hadn't even noticed it. But it's no doubt easier in hindsight, and she was fairly distracted, to be sure. "He then became involved in an... altercation where he extracted this young lady from a particularly prickly affair. It required rather a lot of magic to do so. And I believe that's where we find ourselves now. Can I be of any assistance?"

The Matron simply shakes her head and gets back to work, an idea of how better to proceed knowing the magical depletion is largely unrelated to the Cruciatus or any other treatment from the Death Eaters. Potions keep flying into her outstretched hands, phials emptying as she pours them down his throat. Spells keep getting cast, one after another. She's truly impressive in her element. 

The Potions Professor, now stretched out on the bed, stirs, his expression unguarded, clearly in agony, and briefly opens his eyes, a critical message to relate. Reaching for the Matron's apron, he clutches it tightly and grits out, "No Potions for the Slytherin students tomorrow. Not a one." And then he's out like an extinguished sconce, Noxed and done, unable to be roused once more.

Madam Pomfrey just turns after that strange proclamation to look at the other two present in the room as if either of them might understand that bit of delirium, but is quite evidently even more perplexed when she can tell by their expressions that _both_ of them do. 

Professor Dumbledore takes the lead, "Poppy, that sounds like a _fine_ recommendation. I think we should see to it that we do _just_ that. No Pain Relief and no Headache Potions, tomorrow or the day after to be safe, right, my dear?" he asks turning to Hermione, and she finds her features setting into a grim line and herself resolutely nodding in agreement. 

Let the snakes rot. 

Present company excepted, she realises with a start, feeling blazingly guilty for a moment there. Merlin, how quickly she forgets. She owes him _everything_.

"Miss Granger, would you come with me please? I think we have much to talk about." With that the Headmaster leads her into the adjacent private room at the Infirmary's rear, and _his_ Finite Incantatem does just the trick, having seen that the spell was a Muffliato in her memories. Hermione finds herself biting her lip, hard, to squelch the last of the potion induced sound effects.

And Madam Pomfrey is left alone labouring over the recumbent Professor Snape, doing everything she can and then some to help the poor man recover.


	8. 11 07-08a Fri - Sat - Dumbledore's Debriefing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hermione, Albus and Poppy_

_Professor Dumbledore leads Hermione into the private room at the Infirmary's rear and ends the Muffliato silencing her._

He gestures for her to take a seat on the bed and draws up the chair beside it to face her. In a soft voice, indicating her top with his wand, he asks, "Shall we get you cleaned up first?" 

She nods, continuing to bite her lip in an effort to suppress the potion driven noises she's still prone to make. That has the added benefit of stifling any comment she might have been inclined towards as to _how_ he could think she'd _prefer_ to sit here in a bloody and tattered top. _Her_ name's not 'Weasley' after all. But as her top knits together much as her lip had moments ago, it occurs to her the Headmaster was being considerate and trying to avoid traumatising her further. Her judgment is a little off right now, and she's being unfair.

Once her blouse is whole again, another flick of his wand has it clean, absolutely pristine, and no evidence remains of Professor Snape's Herculean effort this evening. Unexpectedly, that leaves her feeling bereft, as though the bloodstains had been a sort of monument, for the few minutes she'd noticed them, a testimony to his sacrifice on her behalf, now vanished without a trace. She can feel herself growing anxious at the thought. 

After a moment's contemplation, she determines to see _herself_ , _her unharmed presence_ , as that monument instead, and instantly feels much better about the matter. She sits _here_ , _now_ , because _he_ rescued her. It's _that_ simple. It's probably _not_ , but she can define things as she likes, thank you very much. And just like that, she no longer needs his blood on her clothing. 

That was far too morbid, anyway. She can't run around like that. It's bad enough she has it on her hands. Figuratively speaking, of course. She turns those hands back and forth and rubs her fingers automatically at the thought. She examines them and imagines she can still smell his blood on her. It's pure fancy, nothing more; she hadn't noticed anything before. But maybe that was because it hardly registered when contrasted with the gallons of blood that had been poured on her shortly prior. Or because anything she might have thought she'd smelled, she had attributed to her lip anyway. 

Before she can get lost even further down that strange rabbit hole, Professor Dumbledore pulls her out of her thoughts and begins to ask her about the events from earlier tonight. It's probably for the best. 

The Headmaster speaks to Hermione for quite some time about what happened. For the most part, he has questions, plenty of questions. Some, however, are rather unexpected. She's a bit surprised, though, to discover that she has little trouble answering any of them, even if they concern aspects she hadn't regarded herself. She's not accustomed to observing without _considering_.

Realistically, of course, she'll do that far more often than she knows. Given the nature of the company she keeps, usually no one is in a position to point that out to her, and even if they could, she wouldn't be inclined to listen - their roles are too firmly established. And then, too, this evening she won't have been performing at full capacity, she acknowledges. Atypically, she gives herself a pass. _That_ should last until morning.

Altogether more interesting, she decides, when all is said and done, is that she was not necessarily able to determine the _reason_ for certain courses of questions.

The rudimentary facts are quickly established. She senses that the Professor occasionally examines her thoughts via Legilimency to determine the truthfulness of her statements. He's gentle as he does so, and it's more suspicion than certainty on her part that that is what he is doing. 

Nevertheless, she's correct in her assessment. 

She decides not to take it too personally. It was a highly emotional evening. It is not unreasonable to think that her take on the events could be biased, her view of the facts and subsequently her account thereof, possibly, skewed. 

He double checks her story far more in the beginning than later in her narrative. She thinks that's because he's come to trust her version of events. That's only true in part. Later in the evening she was experiencing the effects of the potion, and it makes him very uncomfortable to view her thoughts through that lens. Then, too, as the hour progresses and the potion's effects fade, she becomes a more reliable witness. Additionally, he discovers she is much better at filtering those distortions from her retelling of events than he is. He simply doesn't know her well enough to have a good enough take on what she would have really thought, and what would have been purely potion induced. 

For example, she makes a few statements about her opinions of the Potions Master and his actions that the Headmaster would have been unable to correctly assess from her thoughts alone given the potion in her system. She'll regret doing so by the sobering light of day, considering them unnecessary in addition to thoroughly embarrassing, and especially her use of certain descriptors in the process. But he finds it all far less superfluous than she thinks. Not that that would prove much of a consolation.

He's impressed with her honesty. Her willingness to speak of what must surely have been a mortifying experience, and _that_ in great detail and with remarkable precision. Her recounting borders on being brutally open sometimes. Some of that can be put down to shock. Some is due to disassociation. 

The discomfort he feels in hearing about it leaves him briefly ashamed. What must she feel having _experienced_ it? But ultimately he has little time or inclination to humour such lines of thinking. It's a mental self-indulgence, nothing more. And of course it reminds him of darker times, indeed, that he doesn't care to revisit. But those thoughts, memories of his sister, her abuse, and his family's tragedy, lick at the back of his mind like little flames, burning most cruelly. He rarely thinks of it anymore, or just the end, Ariana's death, really. He Occludes until the thoughts fade, but his resolve strengthens.

The dynamics of the attack on Miss Granger naturally interest him greatly. This makes sense to her, inasmuch as it must surely be of tantamount importance to the Headmaster to understand the threat in his halls and to know who is behind it. He had realised after his initial Legilimency that she had been given some kind of potion. Hearing (and seeing) the details of it seems to greatly concern him. Rightly so. But he is slightly relieved to learn that Mr. Nott tried to dissuade the others from using the illicit potion. That his efforts were insufficient is secondary. 

It does give the Headmaster pause to hear her tell how prominently Harry's attack on Mr. Malfoy last year played a role in tonight's events. The blond had railed on, elliptically, at _length_ about it to her. While it could never have been in question that Harry would be _expelled_ for his actions, of course not, Albus wonders if he mightn't have been a bit too lenient despite that. 

He also gets the sense that forbidding Mr. Malfoy to speak of the attack may have made things worse. It was noticeable in her memories that he could only reference it obliquely and had to omit details in the presence of the other boys, and yet seemed to derive a good deal of satisfaction from her understanding of the events to which he referred. Albus resolves to speak to Severus about that, but then immediately hesitates and then rejects that plan, realising that that might be a sensitive topic for the man. Or perhaps it's simply cowardice on his part.

More surprising is the effect of the youngest Weasley boy's Halloween pranks. There was no restriction on Mr. Malfoy as to that particular incident, and he had scarcely been able to contain his vitriol when speaking of it. It clearly left a mark, oddly maybe more so than the attack it depicted. It had seemed in good fun at the time, Albus had thought, and truly an impressive bit of charms work with the luminescent tears. Clearly Ron's brothers' work. But in retrospect, perhaps they should have put a stop to it... He sighs.

* * *

  
Poppy enters at that moment and asks to speak to him. He leaves the room to join her at Severus' bedside, next to the room he had just occupied with Miss Granger. Albus neither closes the door behind him, nor places any sort of Privacy Charm, which Hermione now thinks she recognises as an invitation to eavesdrop and promptly does. She creeps closer, peering around the corner to observe them covertly and is incredibly relieved to hear the Potions Master is stabilised. Her sigh of relief, confirming both her presence and her response, yields an answering twinkle in the Headmaster's eyes.

"Albus, he's stable, but there's nothing more I can do for him at the moment. We'll just have to wait and see," the Matron updates him. "He's in bad shape, _very_ bad shape, but of course he'll _probably_ pull through." She waves her hand around vaguely. "He always does, somehow." She's noticeably exasperated and annoyed, but her equally apparent concern makes it clear: not with her _patient_. She's truly _worried_ about him. 

"You realise that's not because he _should_ do, medically speaking. It's pure _luck_ and unflagging stubbornness on his part. But that luck can't last forever. One of these days, he's not going to make it." 

The Matron sounds angry at the Headmaster, clearly holding him in part responsible for the condition of her patient. She looks at the pale man stretched out on the sickbed next to her almost fondly, certainly sympathetically, "I have no idea how he survives this, Albus, or how much more he can take. He honestly shouldn't have been able to take what he already _has_." She strokes some of his long hair out of his face, tucking it gently behind his ear. "He won't be in good shape if he does wake, though. _When_. When he wakes." She sighs and shakes her head in obvious frustration. 

"Is there anything we can do for him, Poppy?" The Headmaster's voice is gentle. He's not entirely without concern for the man lying next to him. That his hands are, metaphorically, tied is another matter. Surely there's something to be done for him, and he has the beginnings of an idea as to what.

"I haven't the foggiest, Albus. Not a clue. In addition to the physical toll all of this is taking, the mental anguish is most worrying. I swear, Albus, his strength of will is all that keeps him going some days, and I'm not at all sure how much more he can survive. Not just physically, you understand. The cost to him as a person is _enormous_. 

"Even when the actual damage isn't so severe - but then, when is it not?" There's a huff of blackest humoured amusement to mask her pain. It fails completely. "The effect it has on his psyche is grave. _Very_ grave. His dreams... Those _nightmares_!" She shakes her head again sadly, clearly agitated, and those might even be tears forming in the corner of her eyes. She's known him, _cared_ for him, for the greater portion of twenty-six years. Too much of it has been hard to watch.

"He won't be able to keep this up much longer you know. You ask too much of him. And _they_ keep demanding more of him." The disgust in her tone is clear. Her voice softens, it's almost pleading, "Does he speak to you, in any detail, of the things he faces?"

Albus has the decency to hesitate, blushing a little, before admitting that he does not. "No. Not really." He purses his lips and goes on, "He cannot. For security reasons, you understand..." Except they both know the explanation is rubbish. It's unlikely that You-Know-Who would ever have the chance to view the Headmaster's thoughts, his lackeys certainly hadn't the capabilities to do so, and even if that came to pass, there's actually no harm in Albus' knowing what his spy faces. On the contrary, it could easily be sold as establishing Severus' bonafides. It's really about plausible deniability and keeping his own robes clean. Expediently put, the situation can't be changed, and there's little point in both of them suffering through those harsh realities.

"Then you have to accept that his mind, his _will_ may give out before his body finally does. Although considering some of the horrific things I've seen him subjected to recently, I don't know that it will make all that much difference." 

"He's not _weak_."

"I didn't say he _is_ ," she rounds on him, with a surprising degree of vehemence. "Not by _any_ stretch of the imagination. But if you need him to keep doing this, then you need to figure something out. _That_ is a point of failure," she gestures angrily in the direction of the unconscious man, "and it cannot, _will not_ , hold. I'd be stunned if he lasts another year." 

Albus sighs deeply once more and politely refrains from pointing out that _none_ of them may last another year as things currently stand, subconsciously rubbing his arm beneath its Notice-Me-Not. There's little to be won by doing so and robbing the woman of her illusions. With a sad shake of his head, he reaches gently for the Matron's elbow and steers her back towards the young witch's room. 

"Thank you, Poppy. I shall give it some thought. Come, let us speak to Miss Granger. I think there is more to learn about what transpired tonight." Hermione has the good sense to scamper off to the room's cot when she hears this. 

When the two return to her room, she's seated on the bed as though she had never left.


	9. 11 07-08b Fri - Sat - Hermione's Impression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friday - Saturday, 07-08 November  
>  _Hermione, Albus and Poppy_

_When the two return to her room, she's seated on the bed as though she had never left._ Albus gives her a slight knowing smile, his eyes twinkling mischievously. Poppy waves her wand, the wall turns transparent, window-like, and she is able to observe her patient in the adjacent cot. Hermione finds she has a hard time tearing her eyes away from him.

Albus again takes the chair next to her bed. The Matron remains standing, propped in the doorway.

"Miss Granger, I still have some more questions for you, but first let's clear up a few details. I think it would be best if you spent the night here." He looks over at Poppy, who nods in agreement. "Does that meet with your approval?" The young woman also nods quietly in response, and he continues, "Fine. Then there is the matter of what to tell your friends." 

She flinches as he says this, and he pats her arm, suggesting, "Why don't we tell them there has been an unusual occurrence in the library? Some of the books can be rather... aggressive. We'll bandage one arm, and that will put off the curious. 

"It is my understanding that other than those present in the Infirmary as we speak, only Mr. Malfoy knows the details, or some of them, of what happened tonight?" Again Hermione nods. "Fine. And Professor Snape seems to have assigned him detention. With Mr. Filch. For the _entire_ weekend. _Most_ fortuitous. That shall keep him isolated, and any unfortunate comments from being made, I should think."

Hermione interjects, "Professor Snape made him take an Oath not to speak to anyone about what happened who doesn't already know about it." 

"I'm sure he wasn't pleased in the least at having to do so," he chuffs, "but it certainly solves a few problems." The Headmaster seems to be thinking of something that escapes Hermione, but then she's sure he is privy to much she is unaware of. Still, she senses there is something there worth digging for and takes note.

"Further, I'd like for _you_ to give me your solemn promise not to speak of this with anyone else either, shall we say until Sunday night, and we'll give the matter careful consideration as to how best to proceed." She feels with a certain amount of dread that this heralds the foul compromise that Professor Snape had warned her about. And yet, she isn't in any rush to speak to Harry, and definitely not to Ron, about what took place this evening. 

"Not even Professor McGonagall?"

"Let's just keep it to ourselves for now, shall we? Containment is always easier the fewer who are in the know."

"Until Sunday night?"

He nods, "And then we'll decide how to handle this moving forward." She feels a little managed, but ultimately acquiesces. 

"Very good. Now, Miss Granger, do you have any idea why Professor Snape expended so much energy? His reserves were disturbingly low."

"Professor, I understood that he performed Legilimency on them. He told me he had done so before Obliviating them. All except Malfoy. I mean Draco. I don't believe that he needed to do so on more than one or two of them to establish the facts, so perhaps he was... pursuing other goals?" Her eyes shoot quickly to Madam Pomfrey, unsure how much the older woman knows of the Order's business. 

"I can't believe he seriously thought it would be lethal for him, wouldn't he have given me a message to pass on, even just if time were of the essence or he thought... He _can't_ have thought he was going to die. I don't believe it. So I must assume he was trying to make the best of an... an opportunity?" She swallows a bit at that description of her ordeal, even if the word is her own.

"You're probably right, and I'm sure he'll be able to tell us more when he wakes," the Headmaster responds gently.

"And carrying me all the way up here can't have helped any." Hermione looks unhappy as she admits this. A little helplessly she adds, "I couldn't walk." 

"I'm sure he did what he thought was best," the Matron tries to comfort her, not very successfully. 

Interestingly enough, Hermione completely misses the significance of the Headmaster's next questions. He wants to know if she thought the Potions Master was behaving strangely, acting out of character. She doesn't immediately answer, taking time to formulate an accurate response. The answer, when it finally comes, is a resounding "Yes and no," which rather amuses him. 

"He didn't use magic to do certain things. He had a house elf tidy the classroom. He manually cut the ropes that bound me instead of using a Diffindo or some other charm. In hindsight, I assume that's because his reserves were so low, and because of the Cruciatus after effects? He was shaking too much?" It's a good theory, but she still poses it as a question. The nods she receives from both Professor Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey encourage her to proceed. 

"He performed rather a lot of silent magic, thinking it over, much of it was fairly theatrical in nature. I suspect it was about sufficiently cowing... _them_ so as to keep them from challenging him... It was _very_ effective at doing just that. Everyone just stood there terror struck, in shock. Even before the Immobulus, and after he lifted it. I don't think a one of them tried even a single spell to escape. The Professor was truly frightening, and it _certainly_ made an impression." Her grin as she says this is more than a bit malicious, her appreciation for this response apparent. 

It's a legitimate reaction. She herself had been terrified scant minutes before, and suddenly the tables were turned. It was exceedingly gratifying to see those boys quake in turn. And _that_ faced with only one man? One wizard? Even if it _was_ their Head of House, surely those odds must add to their humiliation. And _good_ if it had.

"It's a pity only Malfoy and I will remember that, given the Obliviates he performed on the others." Suddenly she sobers a bit, picturing the other possibility. "But then I guess that's definitely for the best, all considered. And that's another thing that probably wasn't strictly necessary tonight, for which I am _incredibly_ grateful. I really can't emphasise that enough. 

"He rescued me, truly saved me, in more ways than one." And then there are tears in her eyes that she hastens to wipe away, as she takes into account what might have happened had he _not_ come, and the price he paid because he _did_. She really can't fathom the _risk_ he took. If she's being coldly pragmatic, and she can be sometimes, she doesn't believe _her_ death was ever a remote possibility in this situation. 

Dimly she wonders if this is a fugue state or shock. She can't stop staring at her Potions Professor, supine on the bed beyond the wall Madam Pomfrey had rendered see-through.

Even if the boys had... even if the boys had been... _unchecked_... if they had taken things... further... she is certain that she would have been Confunded, at worst Oblivated, and emerged, effectively, largely... unharmed. Unscathed? Sort of? In a manner of speaking. In some senses...

She's utterly ill-equipped to deal with this. She doesn't even know how to think about it sensibly. But that someone should consider it worth deliberately risking their _life_ for, to keep _that_ from happening... And it _was_. It _was_ deliberate. Everything he did was _considered_ and thought through... And suddenly she's overcome, feeling guilty and grateful and terrified and awestruck and ill, and quite frankly she doesn't understand his risk assessment of the situation _at all_. Damn it!

She lets out an audible sob, the tears begin to fall, and Madam Pomfrey summons a Calming Draught which Hermione gratefully accepts. It works quickly, and she is pleased and more than a little surprised to note that it doesn't seem to affect her logic in the least. On the contrary, as thoughts no longer trigger responses she finds hard to cope with, she discovers she can be more logical than before.

And his risk assessment now makes even _less_ sense to her. She says as much to the two staff members in attendance, and they just shake their heads sadly at her. 

"Miss Granger, I'm sure _he_ saw that very differently. This is not something he would _ever_ take lightly. And given that those five young men were from his house," as Albus says this, Poppy's eyes immediately dart to him. She hadn't known who was behind the attack beyond Mr. Malfoy, nor how many were involved. Five of them! Merlin! He gives her a warning look and continues, "I feel certain it would have weighed on him even more."

"But those boys didn't attack him as well then, if Miss Granger is correct? They aren't behind his wounds, his blood loss?" 

"No, Poppy. He'd have already had all of that when he returned from Malfoy Manor and faced them." Even with the Calming Draught, Hermione looks more than a little tortured as he says this, having reached the same conclusion a while ago. Fortunately the potion has taken some of the pain out of this realisation. 

"Oh, Severus," Poppy sighs, turning to look in the direction of his bed. 

After a pause, Hermione resumes her efforts to answer the Headmaster's question. "He was incredibly gentle. With me. That was rather unexpected. Very considerate. I hope I'm not doing him an injustice, but that isn't the way he usually acts. Not towards us. I kind of thought he hated me, to be honest. So, yes, that seemed out of character. 

"He was _furious_ with them. Unbelievably angry. I don't think I've ever seen him like that, not even with Harry. I'm not sure if that was out of character, but it was certainly unusual. And his defending a Gryffindor against a bunch of Slytherins, virtually unheard of, I'd have said." 

"You realise, Miss Granger, that in his role he has an image to maintain..."

"He said much the same thing, before he _apologised_ to me. _Repeatedly_ ," she answers him pointedly.

Both staff members, long time acquaintances of the dour Potions Professor, know him well enough to just blink in surprise at that. _That_ is certainly unusual behaviour on his part.

"But he _did_ come to your aid..." Professor Dumbledore trails off.

"Yes, but _that_ wasn't surprising. Extremely _fortunate_ , but not _surprising_."

That assertion of hers, on the other hand, is _very_ surprising to both Albus and Poppy. _They_ would expect Severus to behave no differently, but they also expect his efforts to go completely _unnoticed_. Not the least because his life may depend on it. At best, his sacrifices should be discounted with an ungrateful 'he was just doing his job'. That he rather uniquely considers that to be part of his job is another matter entirely, and escapes most people's notice altogether. 

Severus had spent so many years being so foul in his interactions, cultivating the worst possible image, that the average person has a very hard time looking past that to see the man beneath, to simply view his actions for what they are. It just doesn't happen. So it is incredibly unusual to have a student, a _Gryffindor_ at that, claim that such behaviour is _in character_. Most unusual indeed. 

Off their disbelieving looks, Hermione explains, "It's hardly the first time." That only causes them to look even more surprised, so she provides some details. "There are plenty of other examples, but probably the best one, the most demonstrative one, was the time he ran after Harry, Ron and myself because he thought we'd be caught beneath the Whomping Willow with an escaped murderer and a werewolf. 

"Or when not long after that, he actually threw himself bodily between us and that very same werewolf when Professor Lupin... _neglected_ to take the Wolfsbane Potion Professor Snape had brewed for him. And _that_ was shortly after the three of us had Expeliarmused him. Professor Snape, I mean. And I understand the effects of that are cumulative."

"He faced down Remus in werewolf form? He never said..."

"Good gods! Pardon me, Miss Granger, but Severus and that particular wolf have history. That was incredibly brave of him." The Matron appears quite touched by that story.

"And that was right after we had concussed him and knocked him unconscious, too. He didn't hold it against us, he just tried to protect us. I mean, I'm _sure_ he very much resented our behaviour. Make no mistake, I'm not romanticising that rescue at all, but when the proverbial chips were down, he didn't hesitate to put himself in harm's way. _That's_ what matters, and _that's_ not something I forget."

"Harry and Ron have different opinions of him though?" the Headmaster prompts.

"Well," she hedges, casting about for a diplomatic way to phrase it and coming up mostly empty. "Professor Snape can be rather... abrasive?" she finally volunteers, hoping that will be sufficient to convey her meaning. Judging by Professor Dumbledore's twinkling eyes and Madam Pomfrey's unladylike snort, it is. "I think they focus more on that and assume he was only doing what was required of him. Nothing more. Sort of like letting the packaging distract from the product. They're a marketer's dream really."

"But _you_ see the contents of the package, do you?" Dumbledore's eyes really can't seem to stop twinkling. It's making her a little uncomfortable, but she's not sure why.

"Well, no, of course not. Not always. But sometimes it becomes very obvious, and you yourself, Sir, have told us often enough to trust him. Even Professor Quirrel went on at length to Harry about how Professor Snape had thwarted him at every turn, and how _we_ were mistaken about him. I _do_ think those are the kinds of things that might be worth considering. And once you see the pattern, it's fairly hard to ignore."

"You are a very perceptive young woman, Miss Granger."

"Well, Sir, you asked about unusual behaviour. _Saving me_ wasn't the oddity. Being polite and gracious after the fact _was_. He said 'please' and 'sorry', _repeatedly_ , and I don't believe I've ever heard him say _either_ without sarcasm before."

Poppy can't quite resist, "Without sarcasm, dear?" 

"'Mr. Longbottom, _please_ tell the class why your cauldron exploded.' And then when he failed to answer, which was a given, because if he'd had the vaguest notion it wouldn't have happened in the first place, 'So _sorry_ you haven't the requisite intellectual capacity to answer my question. Ten points from Gryffindor.' Something like that." And then realising what she's said, Hermione's hand claps over her mouth, too late to stop the words, as she blushes a particularly vivid shade of crimson, not for the first time this evening, but this time it was all her own fault. 

The hour is late, the stress of the day has gotten to her, the shock is wearing off, and frankly she's becoming a bit punchy. Madam Pomfrey's laughter should alleviate some of the guilt she feels at having poked fun of the man who risked his life to come to her aid. In truth, it's simply another coping mechanism. But all she feels is mortification. "Oh, I'm so _sorry_. I don't mean it that way at all. I..."

"It's quite alright, dear. That was spot on, if I do say so myself. And Severus is in no position to mind," the Headmaster reasons. 

"That's all the more reason I _shouldn't_ have said it." The Calming Draught isn't sufficient to completely dampen her guilt reflex. 

"Get some rest, Miss Granger. I will stop by to check on you and the Professor in the morning." 

"Yes, Sir. Good night. And I'm sorry for the trouble."

"Think nothing of it. _You_ have nothing to apologise for." And with that, the Headmaster turns to leave the room, and Madam Pomfrey ends the spell on the wall and follows him out.


	10. 11 07-08c Fri - Sat - Goodnights...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friday - Saturday, 07-08 November  
>  _Hermione, Albus and Poppy_

"He _apologised_ , Albus," she whispers, not wishing to be heard by the young woman in the next room, but still shocked by this information.

"I know, Poppy. I know," he sighs deeply, clearly tired.

"That's _incredibly_ out of character. For Merlin's sake, he basically broke cover, and to a close friend of Mr. Potter's, too..." the Matron can't stop shaking her head in disbelief. "It's because of his mother, isn't it?"

"If you look closely, a great many things are, one way or another."

She sighs, concerned, "When he's here, unconscious, forced to spend the night... When he hasn't had the chance to cast any Silencing or Privacy Charms... Albus, the things he screams in the night... This is affecting him more and more. We need to _do_ something. _You_ need to do something." 

"I know, Poppy. I do have an idea, I just fear no one is going to like it, and Severus most likely least of all. I'm honestly not sure if the cure wouldn't be worse than the disease."

"At this point, I really don't know how much that matters. We need to try _something_."

"We will," he promises her and with a reassuring squeeze of her shoulder takes his leave for the night. 

* * *

  


Hearing the Headmaster exit, Hermione comes to the door of her little room, hovering until she attracts the Matron's attention. 

"Yes, Miss Granger?"

"Madam Pomfrey, I was wondering, would it be alright if I spent the night out here?" She points to the bed she had initially occupied, next to the one holding her Potions Professor, its sheets not yet changed, which to her Muggle-raised way of thinking improves the odds the Matron will agree. The Matron doesn't think twice about the sheets, of course; that's what the house elves are for. She gives the young witch an appraising look.

"Why would you want to do that when you can have your privacy in the room?"

"Please, Matron, I'd like to help keep an eye on him. I'd like to help." And _that's_ something Poppy understands, the need to feel useful, like one's _trying_ , even when there's nothing more to be done. _Especially_ when there's nothing more to be done. It's hard for a certain kind of person to sit idly by. "And there's a screen if I need privacy and Silencing Charms sort the rest." Hermione tries to look upbeat and resolved. She almost manages it too, which is quite the feat given the night she's had. Madam Pomfrey takes pity.

"Fine then. You may stay here and help me keep an eye on him. He shouldn't wake, but if you hear anything, you'll call me immediately." Hermione nods, but has a sneaking suspicion the Matron took her assent as given. Either way, she didn't wait for a reply and has already turned back to the man lying in the bed. 

"Right now he needs rest more than anything. I'd be surprised if he woke tomorrow, to be honest. Maybe Sunday, if we're lucky." She busies herself at his bedside, a few flicks of her wand freshening his bedclothes and straightening the sheets. Another flick, and she's removed the sweat from his brow and fluffed his hair. 

Hermione is _certain_ that isn't the purpose of that spell, simply the way it manifests, but it causes her to involuntarily smile nevertheless. She can't help noticing the care the Mediwitch takes with her patient, her almost affectionate interactions with him, and it occurs to her that he probably wouldn't stand for it were he conscious. It's almost as though Madam Pomfrey is making the most of it. Again the Matron tucks an errant strand of hair behind his ear and then returns to her other patient, all business.

"I expect Professor McGonagall will wish to see you tomorrow morning. Let's prepare you for her visit, shall we?" A flick of her wand summons a change of clothes, an Infirmary gown in which to more comfortably spend the night. "Off you go," she tells her with a jerk of her head towards the private room, handing Hermione the garment. 

Shortly thereafter, Hermione returns, suitably accoutred in a bland bit of hospital kit and in her stocking feet, the rest of her own clothing folded neatly and tucked under one arm. Her shoes come floating along behind her. A swish of her wand has the trainers slipping themselves under the bed. She sets her bundle of clothes on the table beside her cot and stands patiently awaiting the Mediwitch's further attentions. 

Madam Pomfrey examines the young witch's now predominantly exposed arms and bobs her head approvingly. "Not your wand arm, I imagine." Once more the Matron waves her wand, and Hermione's left arm is suddenly bandaged, as though it had been injured. "As cover stories go, it will do fine unless anyone were inclined to look under the wrappings. I can't imagine anyone would have the nerve." 

It occurs to Hermione that she knows at least two boys at the school who certainly _would_ have the nerve, but thinks that shouldn't be an issue. She wonders if they'll even stop by. She really does have some of the worst luck, thinking back to the time she inadvertently turned herself into a cat person or the whole basilisk disaster, and in _that_ light, the story is believable enough. Actually, the thought of it kind of grates. 'Mayhem magnet 'Mione'. Or maybe 'Mishap 'Mione'. She hopes Ron never thinks of that moniker for her. She'd never be rid of it.

With an irritated sigh, she settles into the chair next to her Professor, resolved to keep the closest watch possible on the unconscious man.

Poppy recognises there's no point in telling the young woman to get some rest instead. She can read _that_ expression well enough after so many years in the profession. She summons a soft but exceptionally warm blanket from the back, not the usual Infirmary fare, but she thinks the young woman won't have noticed and gives it to her with a slightly brusque nudge. Casting a last look at both of her patients, and with a sympathetic shake of her head, Poppy withdraws to her rooms off the Infirmary to get some rest, a ward in place to signal her should anyone call.


	11. 11 07-08d Fri - Sat - ...and Otherwise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Albus_  
>  Dumbledore's Dilemma

The Headmaster isn't as fortunate as the Mediwitch. He gets about as much rest as Miss Granger does. Once again in his chambers, he lifts the Notice-Me-Not from his withered arm and flexes his fingers against their pain before quaffing a potion. One of Severus', he notes... 

Apologising! Stuff and nonsense! Complete and utter rubbish. What had Severus been thinking?

Poppy almost certainly isn't wrong about Severus' condition, she's far too good at what she does to be mistaken, but she doesn't understand how grave the situation is as a _whole_. How could she, when Albus does his level best to hide those facts from her and everyone else?

He knows he won't last very much longer at the rate the curse is progressing, despite the excellent care Severus has provided. Albus' fingers flex again almost mechanically at the thought, and his gaze returns to his hand and arm. It's unclear how long Severus remains at his disposal to continue providing that care for him the way things are going.

Which of course is yet another consideration should Severus succumb to the treatment he's regularly forced to endure. It would inopportunely accelerate their timeline in addition to removing a valuable piece from the board. Technically, _two_ valuable pieces, in that event, first the Potions Master and then inevitably Albus himself. It truly borders on a wonder both of them have lasted _this_ long, if he's honest, not that he's inclined to be. 

Albus' death in the near future is a _certainty_ ; Severus' however is _not_. The question is how to ensure the future is secured without the Headmaster...

It's not about pro forma leaders, the trusted, experienced individuals like Minerva and Arthur, but the witches and wizards who will get the necessary things _done_. 

In the absence of Alastair Moody, the two most promising successors are Severus and Kingsley, followed, as odd as it might seem, by Harry and Miss Granger, although they both need work. A good bit of it. It won't be Remus, Albus acknowledges sadly, having to admit that the werewolf all too frequently fails to do the things he knows are right for all the wrong reasons, but primarily due to lack of fortitude. The situation with Miss Tonks... _Madam Lupin_... and their estrangement comes unbidden to mind... Kingsley, however, isn't sufficiently pragmatic to get the job done; he shies away from the distasteful, and he's far too focused on the issue of legality. And in contrast, Severus lacks the Order's trust, and certainly shall more so, once he's done... what's required of him. 

Truth be told, not to speak ill of the dead, _but_ Alastair's paranoia and grim doggedness probably meant he wouldn't have been up to the job had he _not_ been killed this past summer. _That_ fact at least prevents a likely power struggle in the longer run. As well as keeping the Auror from embarking on a unrelenting manhunt for Severus, Albus thinks cynically. 

Still, it's... problematic. 

It's perhaps not strictly necessary that Severus enjoys the Order's trust to accomplish what he needs to. The fact remains, once Albus is... gone, once that trust is lost completely, Severus will no longer serve as a _spy_. No one in the Order would still lend credence to a thing he says. No, at that point he will effectively be reduced to a fifth columnist. 

Still useful. Still _required_. But his _utility_... changes. 

It would help, however, if he were able to gain Harry's trust. Albus can't help scoffing slightly at that. If the young man hasn't been able to trust the Potions Master before now, he most certainly won't once Severus has... fulfilled his promises to Albus. Merlin knows, he's told Harry repeatedly the Professor can be trusted, to no avail. Because Harry _clearly_ knows best.

That's unfair, of course. He's just a boy. An immature boy at that. And they can't expect Harry to accurately appraise things when they routinely keep the facts from him. But then they can hardly give him the facts when he can't Occlude for shite. That _is_ entirely his fault, however. The Malfoy lad has demonstrated a much better command over Occlumency and had learned under far worse circumstances. For all the self-recriminations Harry likes to engage in, they're rarely for the _right_ things. 

For the briefest of moments, the Headmaster wonders how much he himself has contributed to the mistrust and animosity between Harry and Severus. It had been useful at the time. The boy had been far, _far_ too easy to read. He wasn't even much improved in that regard now. Perhaps telling Harry that the Professor was simply _ungrateful_ that James had saved his life... Quite the misrepresentation, but then Severus _had_ made Albus promise, all those years ago, not to reveal the Potions Master's _true_ reasons for working for the Order, and _some_ narrative was required. But perhaps not necessarily that _particular_ one... 

No matter. It's done. 

It isn't as though the current constellation could have been predicted. Albus had fancied _his own_ chances of survival significantly higher than his spy's. He had planned on being there to navigate Harry through the required... sacrifices. 

But even without the Order's or Harry's trust, it is of _utmost_ importance that Severus _survive_ , long enough, anyway, to do what he must. No one else currently at their disposal has the requisite skills to decipher and brew the potions they require. And certainly none are better placed to have a chance to administer them. That aspect, of course, has always been the trickier detail. As yet, there's no clear answer how to achieve it. But _that_ detail is irrelevant should the potions never be brewed. First things first.

It was a wretched spot of luck that Albus tried on that bloody ring. But had he not, Severus would have undoubtedly done so when it came time to brew the potions. Had he not discovered the curse, had he tried it too far in advance, he might not even survive long enough to brew them, and then where would they be? Ultimately, although hardly _pleased_ to be dying, it was probably better that the curse of the ring had struck Albus and not the Potions Master. This way, they had known to neutralise it before it claimed another victim. 

That might be a bit of self-deception, an attempt to justify blatant foolhardiness as a noble sacrifice. It's entirely probable that Severus' suspicious nature would have kept him from such a fatal error. He would have run no end of tests and scans on the damned ring, and not allowed himself become distracted by, _enamoured_ of its pedigree... A ring of _Salazar's_ , set with one of the _Peverell's_ Deathly Hallows, owned by Tom Riddle himself, and used to brew a nigh mythical potion of _Merlin's_... For Merlin's sake, how could Albus resist?

And here in a nutshell, of course, Severus would no doubt be happy to point out, were he not comatose, was the argument _against_ having such a conglomeration of Gryffindors as one's army. The tendency towards reckless acts under the mantle of boldness... 'Bold' is only used as a descriptor when an act is not primarily something, _anything_ , else. Like sensible. Clever. Strategic. Promising. Even kind or considerate, for what that's worth. Certainly not _well considered_. Or - better yet - _successful_. It's virtually synonymous with 'reckless' or 'stupid', simply more polite.

As Miss Granger would have it, it's probably a question of marketing.

Albus can speculate all he likes, but it's unclear if Severus would have found the curse or not and fallen victim to it as he had. Either way, as things stand, Severus was spared that particular threat, and Albus has taken the hit. 

Quite a shame. Still, it can't be helped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ### A/N:
> 
> Wotcher, people. I wanted to check in with you guys. 
> 
> First, thanks so much for reading, the kudos and especially the comments. (You're lovely, and I'm always a little startled to see people are actually reading this.) They make my day, and I like hearing what works for you. So here's a blatant solicitation for more. Heh. ;-) Seriously, I appreciate the feedback.
> 
> Second, a request for a moment of patience as Albus pulls an all-nighter ~~plotting~~ thinking about what to do to solve some problems he's facing. You'll soon be returned to our regularly scheduled Hermione/Severus programme. Later in the story a bunch of secondary characters get chances to shine (Neville, Luna, Harry and probably a few you wouldn't expect amongst them. Ron... not so much.), but it's rare for me to have a chapter without at least either Severus or Hermione. 
> 
> Story-wise, it makes more sense to put it in here in one go to set up things that are coming. (There's a *lot* coming. ) And Albus needs time to be a douchecanoe. Given I didn't want to start this story in sixth year for a more organic set up (let's face it, my focus is on the SS/HG relationship), some stuff probably needs emphasising so it doesn't come out of the blue later.
> 
> Here's hoping I have you hooked enough that you can take Albus the Exposition-Fairy. In return, the pay off starts as early as 'Sunday', when a *bunch* of stuff happens and our two protagonists finally get around to talking to each other. A lot. Amongst other things. There may even be food involved. (That's not meant to be kinky.) And flowers... Just saying.
> 
> Please let me know what you think. 
> 
> Cheers,  
> Ginger :-)


	12. 11 07-08e Fri - Sat - Albus' Answer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friday - Saturday, 07-08 November  
>  _Albus_

Where does that leave him? There are a number of considerations...

All his research seems to have paid dividends. He has several tasks to accomplish, or which he needs to ensure will be accomplished, whichever. It matters not which. 

Not much, anyway.

Identify, locate, acquire and destroy the Horcruxes, presumably two, Tom banking undoubtedly on the Arithmantic stability of _three_ pieces of soul, his and two more. If one doesn't count Harry that is. But then Tom won't have suspected about Harry, or he wouldn't have created a Horcrux out of the snake, the Headmaster feels sure. The familiar, clearly, has replaced the Diary, which had fortunately provided Albus with the clue that Horcruxes were the solution, or at least part of it. But the second... Yes, the identity of the second Horcrux remains elusive. 

Identify, find and retrieve the artefacts used to brew the potions, presumably three articles of Salazar Slytherin's and one of Merlin's. Three of the four have been identified. One has been found, he thinks ruefully, looking once more towards his hand. Two more are being sought, the locket and stirring rod, and the fourth has somehow escaped their attention. 

Harry, most assuredly with the aid of Miss Granger and young Mr. Weasley, has joined in both of those searches. 

Decipher the potions brewing process for the antidote to Merlin's Invincibility Potion. Then gather the ingredients and brew it. Severus is hard at work on that. Albus could wish for no one better. If the Potions Master lives long enough, he will certainly solve this problem. It had apparently taken Tom decades to unravel how to brew the original potion. It will undoubtedly take time to figure out how to brew the antidote. While the Invincibility Potion had required _years_ to take effect, the simple fact of which thankfully had enabled Riddle's defeat in the first war, unfortunately it had been a good deal simpler to brew. But here again, Albus fervently hopes having a true master of the subject at his disposal will make all the difference.

Determine a method for administering the potion once brewed. He and Severus are both working on that. No closer to a solution, of course... He wonders not for the first time if there is anyone in the Order who could help with that, and then discards the notion, as always, due to the risk of discovery. The help is desperately needed, but the added exposure isn't worth the benefits that help could be anticipated to bring.

Beyond all that, Harry obviously needs to be alive to kill Voldemort when the time comes. And he probably needs to be willing to sacrifice himself to do so, which is far trickier to manage. The young wizard at least needs to be willing to put himself in harm's way, where he will almost certainly have to die for this to work. But the _willingness_ to do so will undoubtably make a difference, just as his mother's sacrifice had back in her day. 

By and large, manoeuvring Harry isn't too unlike the handling Severus requires. It is of paramount importance to ensure their mindsets will permit them to complete the tasks necessary at the appropriate times. It has always been a delicate balance. And maintaining that balance will become a good deal more difficult in Albus' absence. For Severus, burnt bridges and salted earth will augment a Vow. He won't be _able_ to turn back, that will help him stay the path. Harry, however, is a good deal harder to manage.

In summation, he needs Harry until the final confrontation with Tom, and he needs Severus until he completes his mission to enable that confrontation, most likely very shortly before that encounter to reduce the risk of discovery. All others are expendable as and when... It's a harsh statement, unquestionably, but this is _war_. He'll make no apologies for realism. _No one's_ survival is given. 

Apologising! How absurd!

Balderdash. 

Focusing again, with some difficulty, Albus decides Miss Granger might be his best bet to have Harry live long enough to reach that battle. 

Mr. Weasley, despite the advantages of his background as a pure-blood, built-in support network and some innate tactical skills, seems to lack both the requisite loyalty _and_ knowledge for the job. He decidedly lacks the _drive_ to learn what is needed, as well as the determination to sacrifice as required. Albus is frankly disappointed in the boy. He had hoped gifting him the Prefect's position would encourage him to realise his potential... If anything, it's made him more complacent. He bears more than a passing resemblance to Remus, really. Sadly not in terms of Lupin's _strengths_.

Increasingly it seems an either / or proposition between the two Gryffindors, Granger and Weasley. It would probably be... beneficial to see to it Miss Granger is... _around_ , at least until Harry no longer needs her. Unfortunately for that plan, she's quite evidently currently already under threat, and not of sufficiently proven value to risk much...

But he has an idea. There's a solution to much of this slowly taking shape in his mind. It has been since he was called to the Infirmary. Coalescing, taking form. 

Further considerations... 

Minerva can never learn the identity of the boys involved in tonight's assault. That is more than clear. She's far too volatile. He'll have to have Miss Granger take an Oath to facilitate that. Severus won't approve. _That_ might prove advantageous, for a few different reasons, moving forward. 

Albus frequently finds himself unable to imagine how Minerva managed to survive as a spy for the Ministry in the last war. He wonders fleetingly if he's doing the witch an injustice, or if Severus has _so_ come to define how he sees a spy that he is no longer capable of recognising any other approach. Nevertheless, Albus is positive, Severus' technique is beyond parallel. And unfortunately currently at risk.

_That_ is the problem that requires his immediate attention. It demands a solution and one that will stick, whether he himself is here to monitor the situation or not. With a glance at his arm he ruefully adds: as is increasingly likely. 

Albus is certain that the best possible resolution for his own current... situation is to have his spy appear to 'murder' him, thereby cementing Severus' position within Voldemort's ranks. Wasting away, as he is, is unappealing, and his inevitable death in that fashion would serve no purpose. A foolish end due to a foolish action. That damned ring. It was all so unnecessary... And there's a very real danger, the longer this progresses, the less sound his decisions will become. 

But to make that 'murder' believable... Albus can see it in his mind's eye. Somewhat perversely, perhaps, he has it practically scripted. A series of storyboards, perfectly mapped out. It must be just... _so_. 

It needs to be the Avada Kedavra. It can't be anything else but. The Killing Curse, an Unforgivable, is what will sell it. _No one_ will question that. For that to work, he needs Severus to hate him, at least in part. While still wishing to remain loyal, naturally. That loyalty can't just come from force or subjugation by a Vow. If that is the only thing keeping his spy going, the man will cave sooner rather than later. Severus needs to _want_ to continue at any price. And it really is at _any_ price, for the cost is... unbelievable. 

Albus would almost feel sorry about that were it all less fundamentally _necessary_. But it really is. And it's unclear if he could even spare Severus from much of that if he _wanted_ to, given the Dark Mark the Slytherin had taken as a foolish boy.

It was a magnificent stroke of... luck that Albus had a man at his service willing to go to these lengths. Now he needs to figure out how to extend Severus' capacity for doing so. Albus thinks this idea of his could do the trick. _If_ he can get the man to agree to it, and then further somehow... bring him to _accept_ the less obvious benefits of it. That's not to say 'coerce'. That latter is more likely to prove the sticky wicket, which borders on amusing given the improbability he'd ever agree to it.

Poppy's correct; this current crisis is entirely because of Severus' mother. It's more than a little absurd that the man is willing to take lives when called for, but has drawn this tenuous line in the sand. _That_ line is threatening Albus' plans. 

It's been useful, no argument there, and there's never been much point in questioning the _sense_ of the man's moral constructs. Particularly not when they have proven _advantageous_ , Albus can freely admit, at least to himself. He isn't some Muggle mind healer. This isn't about healing Severus. There probably can't be any healing the man anyway, and were he somehow miraculously healed, he'd undoubtedly stop being anywhere near as useful. Clearly an _undesirable_ result.

But Albus can't afford to simply take away memories of Eileen Snape. It's far too risky. Doing so might jeopardise the man's motivations, and as inopportune as this crisis of conscience is proving, those motivations, primarily the results of a complex mosaic of experiences with his mother and Lily Potter, are what keep him returning time and again to unimaginable horrors at the wands of Tom and his lackeys. 

No, what is required is a way to ensure the status quo. A way to guarantee that Severus can't be forced to cross those arbitrary lines of his. And perhaps, with luck, gain some reliable support for the man.

To that end, Albus is coming to believe, the best solution is bonding him to Miss Granger, thereby hitting two bludgers with one bat. 

He expects the idea will go over well. _Smashingly_...


	13. 11 07-08f Fri - Sat - Dumbledore's Decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Albus_  
> ...in which Albus in an absolute _Arse_ and then finally goes to bed.

The bonding doesn't _need_ to happen now, but it needs to happen before someone astute recognises the key to destroying his spy irrevocably and makes use of it. Albus suspects Bellatrix is at the core of these problems. On the other hand, _were_ it to happen now, it increases the risk to his Potions Master physically, as he desperately needs time to recover. Albus is _reasonably_ certain that Tom currently has no desire to see Severus dead. He thinks he can trust to that. And if Severus is in his weakened state, he's less likely to kick up an effective fuss _against_ this scheme. Albus has no doubt he can get the man to consent to it _eventually_ , but whether that will happen before the opposition breaks him...

And were his spy's life in great peril now, and could Miss Granger be convinced that this arrangement is primarily for _her_ benefit... What Albus knows of the young woman would indicate that she is likely to quickly become Severus' staunchest ally. Indeed, guilt would help her stand by him, no matter how difficult he's inclined to make it, and realistically an honest assessment needs to admit he's likely to make it _extremely_ difficult. But feelings of guilt should prove easy enough to arrange. They're already _present_. And should she stand by him unwaveringly, in response, perhaps she could succeed in gaining his trust. Albus expects _that_ will prove more challenging.

He's encouraged by the young woman's recognition and _acknowledgment_ of some of Severus actions and his willingness to sacrifice. She's actually _grateful_. With luck, she might not fight this all too much. Severus, naturally, will rely too heavily on her refusal. That in turn creates opportunities Albus won't hesitate to make use of. If Severus can be manoeuvred to agree if she does... Her responses to Albus' questions demonstrated to him not just how close to his limits the Potions Master is, but that she sees him, at least in part, for who he is. And _appreciates_ what she sees. 

That is... _extraordinary_. 

There's respect. Even some admiration. There are things she _likes_ about him. That's so singular as to quite probably place her firmly in a minority of one. 

Additionally, the behaviour Miss Granger has routinely tolerated from both Harry and Mr. Weasley, while still counting them as her closest friends, would indicate she has a high threshold for abuse. Or a fundamentally faulty understanding of the normal dynamics of friendships. Probably both. That, coupled with extremely low expectations, most likely related to self esteem issues as an awkward Muggle-born, all accompanied by an almost unhealthy degree of loyalty. Yes... She's practically _perfect_ for this plan. Albus almost feels guilty for exploiting that. He might, even, did he not consider this so... necessary. 

With some amusement, it occurs to him that that is something she and Severus have in common. Very low expectations of and correlating demands on their friends. In fact, they seem to have inherently flawed definitions of what friendship entails. While both being more than willing to offer _more_ , they regularly settle without complaint for _far_ less. 

Perhaps they could bond over it... He wonders if he's just being mean. But it _could_ be a good thing for them. Not that it matters to him much if it is.

The only question will be how to enable this to happen without jeopardising her friendship to Harry. Albus has some ideas. They will take time. But then this tactic might just provide them all with the time they need for those ideas to come to fruition. 

He's now reasonably certain, without Severus, Albus himself falls, and without Miss Granger, Harry won't make it to the battle. Not that it would matter, because he wouldn't succeed anyway, as Severus wouldn't have sorted the Invincibility Potion. And Albus firmly believes Severus and Miss Granger are at risk. So _obviously_ this is all frightfully _necessary_.

There's a slim possibility that he's trying to convince himself that the witch is at such risk because he needs to use her for this scheme of his. If so, he's done such a thorough job that he no longer recognises that fact.

More difficult than convincing the young woman will be wrangling the Professor's tendencies to distrust and push away all and sundry. Some of that is a inclination towards self-flagellation. But Albus expects that should be reducing the more Severus is very concretely and harshly punished by others. At some point, the man should hit bottom and decline such treatment. Or at least see the sense in no longer adding to the problems. Indeed, it's conceivable someone could teach him the wisdom of that before it gets that far. Were he only able to _trust_ that person. 

And that, of course, is the second factor in his self-imposed isolation. A fundamental lack of trust in those around him. It's not unjustified. Quite the contrary. But it can be disadvantageous. Particularly now in his vulnerable state. Albus thinks he has an idea how to solve that, too. 

Indeed, his plan is coming together nicely. At least in his own thoughts.

Minerva won't be pleased. That much is clear. But then she doesn't need to be. She'll blame Severus; she always does. That might even be expedient, providing more cover for the man. And perhaps Miss Granger can offer sufficient support to counterbalance that. Albus suspects she'll be inclined to try. He only needs to see to it that the Potions Master accepts that support... 

The members of the Order won't be pleased. They certainly don't need to be. That, too, might work to their advantage, given that Severus' days as a spy per se are numbered. In the next phase of the operation, the less he is liked ( _can_ he be liked any less?), the fewer doubts as to the reasons for his actions, the better. The safer, even, for the man in question. It's practically a _boon_.

_Severus_ won't be pleased. But then _he_ doesn't need to be either. If anything, it might add to the growing resentment that will enable him to cast the Avada when the time comes. And all while providing him with a replacement confidante when Albus is no longer... available for that purpose. 

Clearly this is the best option. 

Firmly resolved to present his plan to Miss Granger in the morning, the Headmaster retires for what little is left of the night. He has much research and a fair bit of lobbying to do tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience. We now return you to your regularly scheduled SS/HG.


	14. 11 08a Saturday - The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hermione, Poppy_

_It's a brilliantly sunny day; the sky is the most stunning blue. Hermione's running through a field of wild flowers. Not_ from _anything, no, she's laughing. Running just for the sheer joy of the movement, and having quite the giggle really. The earth is warm under her feet, and the grasses are soft against her bare legs. She stops running to twirl around, arms outstretched, getting only a little dizzy as she does so. She laughs again in pleasure, sheer silliness, watching her dress catch on the light breeze that kisses gently over her skin, enjoying the wonderful scents and the warmth of the sun on her body._

_She's not alone, there's someone watching her, and she stops her spinning to smile at him. Professor Snape is standing there in the middle of the field, shaking his head at her shenanigans, and admonishing her for trampling perfectly good potions ingredients. He puts on a good show, except she can see the beginnings of a smile on his face even from here, and they've already collected everything they need, and then some, from this field, or she would never have been so reckless. And then it dawns on her: that's the_ reason _he's pleased, that she, they, needn't be wary and careful for once. That he simply appreciates the frivolity of the moment..._

_That's_ about the time she begins to wake, as a voice in her head begins to loudly object that he's not _at all_ fond of frivolity, and she's got that quite _wrong_. And she objects in reply: how would she know? She's not at all sure. 

What she _is_ is tired, and warm, and perfectly comfortable and in no hurry to open her eyes and greet the day. She comes to herself slowly, the exhaustion a little hard to shake off. It's still very dark and must be ridiculously early. Little wonder she's so tired then. 

The first thing she consciously notices is the magnificent scent of wild flowers, not at all a dream, which she soon determines comes from her blanket. That becomes the next thing she's aware of, the blanket. It's incredibly warm and light and marvellously soft, like angora or cashmere or both, except of course it's probably some magical creature that Hagrid wouldn't dream of raising because it can't kill or maim you a dozen different ways without even trying. 

She inhales deeply and snuggles into the soft weave. She stretches lazily and realises she's in a bed, and not her own, but she's not alarmed yet. The memories from the previous night trickle back, and she knows that someone, most likely Madam Pomfrey, has placed her in the bed. She must have fallen asleep in the chair watching over the Professor. 

How is he?

That provides sufficient motivation to finally open her eyes so she can check on him and see... 

He's _gone_. 

She bolts upright to get a better look. There's no trace of him in the bed next to hers. The bed is made. There's no sign of his things. Everything's vanished. It's as though he'd never been there.

At that, a wave of panic shoots through her body. She feels physically ill. Snatching her wand, she leaps out of bed to the left, towards _his_ , first placing a hand on it to discover it's cold and then tears off to the right, barefooted, for the office at the front of the Infirmary, practically screeching for Madam Pomfrey. 

"Miss Granger, what is it?" 

"The Professor! Madam Pomfrey! He's... ?" and her voice breaks and she's very clearly about to burst into tears. 

"Calm yourself. Calm yourself! He's quite alright. I've simply moved him to the back room. I didn't want Minerva, Professor McGonagall, to see him like that when she comes to visit you." She affects a put upon air, but frankly she's a bit pleased at the young lady's concern. She knows already that no one other than Albus will stop by to visit Severus as he lies here, fighting for his life, _yet again_ , and she finds that incredibly sad. It would help, of course, if anyone _knew_ how things stood with him, although it makes perfect sense that they _don't_ , but no one even thinks to question his absence. In fact, it's often appreciated. 

The relief is plain to read on Hermione's face. It feels like she can finally start breathing again. She couldn't have taken the guilt had anything happened to him. 

"It's still quite early yet. You didn't get much sleep." It's a statement and not a question. Hermione wonders if the Matron can tell just by looking at her, if she used some kind of diagnostic charm on her, or if the wards she undoubtably has in place in the Infirmary tell her that and so much more than Hermione had previously imagined. The answer is all three are true, but Poppy is a good judge of character, and knew without checking the little witch wouldn't stop watching over Severus until she could no longer keep her eyes open. She'll have been up very late indeed. 

"Why don't you go back to bed and try to get a little more rest. It would do you some good," the Mediwitch suggests, almost gently. She takes Hermione lightly by the arm and leads her back to her bed, but she balks slightly when they reach the far side of the room. "Miss Granger? What is it?"

"Um... Could I... That is..." She takes a deep breath, calls to mind the desperation she had felt just minutes ago, and finds the courage to ask. "Please, Madam Pomfrey. May I _see_ him? I... I need to know he's fine." 

It's all well and good the Matron saying he's 'alright'. It's something else altogether to see that with one's own eyes. Hermione doesn't think she'll fall back to sleep until she's had visual confirmation. He's only in that bed because he came to her rescue. She _needs_ to know he's... She'd _like_ to know he's _fine_. She'll _settle_ for seeing that he isn't in critical shape. 

Poppy considers her request for a moment. It's unusual. But then, the circumstances that led to their presences here last night were also highly unusual. Thank goodness. 

Truthfully, Poppy cares about Severus and she's quite worried about him. Although she understands why he maintains the image he does, she can't help but think that it would do him good to have a few more people in his corner. She hasn't meddled. She hasn't interfered. But if she can encourage the perfectly _reasonable_ concern Miss Granger shows... Well, surely no one could take issue with that. 

"Come with me then," she answers almost a little gruffly with a nod of her head towards Severus' room, and has to fight to keep from smiling when the young witch beams in response. "And get something on your feet. You'd think no one has a lick of common sense around here." She's more comfortable admonishing students, but the fact Miss Granger's smile didn't falter would indicate she's starting to see through the Mediwitch's facade. Or that she doesn't care about the rebuke, but once again, Poppy's knowledge of human nature can pretty much rule out that possibility. 

Hermione summons her socks from her bed. They emerge from far under the blanket where she'd apparently kicked them off in her sleep. She pulls them on one after the other while hopping awkwardly after the Matron towards the little room the Headmaster had questioned her in last night. Again Poppy bites back her smile. Miss Granger is certainly eager. Not exactly _dignified_ , but eager. 

They stop in the doorway to his room, and the young witch stands there transfixed, staring, needing to see that he's breathing. His breathing is shallow, and they have to look closely to see his chest rise and fall under his covers, but Hermione has eyes for nothing else. It's not long before her breathing synchs with his, a sense of peace overtaking her as it does. "Let's get you back to bed, then," the Matron tells her softly, and when she leads the young woman back to her bed, this time there's no resistance. 

  



	15. 11 08b Saturday - Inspection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hermione, Poppy, Minerva_

Hermione wakes again to the sound of voices. From the quality of the light in the room, she assumes it's a couple of hours later. She couldn't explain why afterwards if pressed, but she closes her eyes once more and listens intently before making any discernible movement. Soon she's identified the voices, her Head of House, Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey. The Professor sounds almost equal parts irate, exasperated, and concerned; it's a delicate balance, liable to tip in any one direction all at once, and Hermione now has a good idea of why she kept still. 

She has no desire to be on the receiving end of _that_.

"I should have been notified! To have to hear from Miss Brown that Miss Granger had gone missing..." Professor McGonagall appears to be on a bit of a tear. Hermione's trying to decide if Lav is a grass or genuinely worried. There's probably some of each in play. 

"Minerva, Albus felt the situation was well in hand. There was nothing you could have done at the time, and I Flooed you as soon as the hour was humane. What possible good would it have done to fetch you last night?" 

Feigning sleep, Hermione lies there as the women approach. 

"And so what precisely happened?" Minerva challenges Poppy as they reach Miss Granger's bedside. She's clearly still sound asleep, and no doubt has a potion or two to thank for it in light of the noise they're making. Her extensively bandaged arm lies exposed on top of her coverlet. Poor thing.

"She was brought in late yesterday evening. Albus said something happened in the Library, but I'm afraid he didn't say what exactly. He did mention something about the books being... I believe the word he used was 'aggressive'. But you'll have to ask him if you wish to know more," Poppy prevaricates so well, Severus would have been proud were he inclined to such feelings. Well, he might at least have been impressed. Minerva certainly notices nothing amiss with her answer, and Poppy's pleased with its accuracy - Albus did indeed say just that. 

"Irma needs to get those _things_ of hers better under control. This is absurd. _Unacceptable_." Minerva gives her head an angry shake. They'll be having a chat.

"What's her prognosis?" She asks her colleague, looking at her star student's bandaged arm with a pinched expression.

"Oh, her arm will be right as rain in no time. It shouldn't take long at all, and it will be as though nothing happened to it. I can guarantee, _it_ won't carry any lasting scars from the encounter," Poppy assures her, wishing the same could be said of the witch and what she _actually_ experienced the night before. Still, the Matron has a job to do, and do it she shall. 

"Was she somewhere she shouldn't have been? Did she get careless?" Minerva asks. She has far too much experience with students not to know their hubris is frequently entirely at fault for their misadventures. Before she bites Irma's head off, it behoves her to properly assess where the blame lies. 

Poppy winces. It's understandable why the Transfigurations Professor was thinking along these lines, but equally unfortunate. "This was hardly _her_ fault." The note of reproach in her voice convinces Minerva to seek the responsible party elsewhere.

"Thank you, Poppy. Thank you for taking care of her. If either of you needs anything, kindly let me know." 

"Of course, Minerva. I was glad to help." 

"She really does have the most rotten luck. I'll inform Misters Potter and Weasley so they won't worry unduly." And with that the Deputy Headmistress turns on her heel and stalks purposefully from the room. There's something rather insistent about her footfalls as she strides off, her anger readily apparent. Hermione shivers involuntarily just at the sound as she lies there sulking about the suggestion this was somehow her _own_ fault. She tries to remember that the Professor couldn't know any better, but it stings all the same.

Once Minerva's gone, Poppy turns to the witch in the bed, "It's safe to open your eyes now, Miss Granger. She's left."

Hermione feels caught. She hasn't exactly done anything _wrong_ , and yet... It would seem her sense of guilt is working overtime at the moment. "I'm sorry, Madam Pomfrey. I just didn't want to lie to her, and I'm not permitted to tell her the truth."

Poppy can see the sense in that, beyond the rectitude. Minerva can't give Poppy detention, deduct House points, or lower her grades for misleading her. After the fact, Minerva most likely won't even make the distinction that she wasn't lied to, and it's reasonable to assume she'll be angry indeed. Poppy's hardly in a vulnerable position, but the relationship Miss Granger shares with the Professor is a different one entirely. 

"It's quite alright, Miss Granger. I know your hands are tied. Or I suppose that's 'tongue', although that usually means something else altogether now doesn't it?" She tuts as she waves her wand and freshens the bedding. 

Hermione looks at her a little uncertainly and merely blinks, not sure where they stand. Madam Pomfrey softens and gives her a slight smile. The transformation that minor concession brings to her patient serves again as proof of the Matron's insights into people. She was right, the witch does indeed care about what Poppy thinks. That's probably true for most people in authority. 

Assuming, she supposes, the student respects them. 

She's heard the story about her dust-up with Sybill. Repeatedly. The 'Seer' can hold quite a grudge. Secretly, Poppy's inclined to agree with Miss Granger on that score. And of course there were the issues with Umbridge two years ago, but the woman was a joke. A cruel one, but a joke nevertheless.

"It's time for breakfast. Are you prepared to face the day?"

Hermione glances reflexively at her pile of clothing from the previous night, and finds herself _completely_ unwilling to slip back into those things. Perhaps not ever. Certainly not the top. Her hand goes up, unbidden, and she pokes at her brassiere, revulsion and anxiety warring all too clearly on her face. Fortunately, Poppy _really_ is good at reading people. 

Convincingly apropos of nothing the Matron says, "I have some clean things for you," which she summons from her office with a flick of her wand. When she hands them to Hermione, she's puzzled to note these things aren't hers. An inquiring glance gets her another curt answer, whose tone Hermione is coming to question, "They're new. You may keep them. 

"Shall we get you cleaned up first?" She's the epitome of professional efficiency.

Hermione nods her agreement, turning to look for the lavatory, but her nod was apparently all the Matron needed to unleash her assortment of Hygiene Charms on the young woman. 

Flick, swish. Swish, flick. 

Hermione's clean, her teeth are brushed, her breath feels fresh, and even her hair isn't a complete terror. For a _Charm_ , that's _impressive_. Very. She blinks at the onslaught, but she can't deny it was a good deal faster than her usual morning ablutions. Still, she'll never get used to a magical solution for so many of the things she'd solve the Muggle way given the option.

"Thank you," she responds, not quite sure if she means for the clothes or the... cleaning. No, she's sure: she's very thankful for the clothes, and being polite about the rest. But she sounds sincere enough, because she is, and with a slight one shouldered shrug, the Matron stands and pulls the curtained screen in front of the bed so Hermione has privacy to change.

The Matron's, "I'll bring you something to eat in a bit," wafts over the curtain as her footsteps retreat.

  



	16. 11 08c Saturday - Wardrobe (Mal-)Function

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hermione, Poppy_  
> ...in which Hermione makes a discovery and thinks she's an arse, but doesn't know the meaning of the word.

Hermione sets about getting dressed. Madam Pomfrey has provided her with new undergarments, socks and a clean top. She'll have to wear her jeans from yesterday, but discovers she doesn't mind. The fit will undoubtedly be better, she thinks, although when she gets around to putting on the top, she'll realise she really has no complaints about sizing. The bra, she notes with wry humour is in _much_ better nick than hers was. That's probably not all that difficult. 

The blouse, however, proves a real delight. It's a deep green, not a colour she would normally choose, but it suits her very well. It's fitted, also a nearly unique characteristic in her wardrobe, and it fits _beautifully_ , a thing that honestly can't be said of most of her clothes. Hermione _hates_ shopping, with a passion usually reserved for learning or the printed word, and prefers to buy things large enough that there is no risk of outgrowing _anything_ ; she'll wear things out before she does. The fact she's no longer growing out of her clothes doesn't seem to have registered sufficiently to change this habit of years. 

It's the bit of eyelet lace around the neckline and wrists, however, that gives her something to think about. For one thing, she can tell now where the top comes from. As recently as this morning, it must have been one of the Matron's handkerchiefs. Hermione's seen that pattern of lace on the delicate bits of cloth pinned to the witch's apron in the past. Last night, even. She has obviously sat down and transfigured it into a blouse, taking great care for it to fit and for the trim details to marry up nicely, changing its colour and... It's a _lovely_ bit of Transfiguration. 

It's also something Hermione hasn't been doing much of outside of the classroom lately.

Her clothes are from the high street. Her denims are from Primark, her top Marks & Spencer - it's a pity to lose it; she'd liked it. But she hasn't created a stitch of it, she's purely a consumer. She looks now, deliberately, contemplatively at her bra. It's supposed to be 'Make Do and Mend', except she hasn't really mended, now has she? Looking at the shape the undergarment's in, taking in its worn condition, she wonders why she hadn't repaired it? She's been more than competent with a Reparo since before first year even started.

It had helped, of course, that virtually no one had been likely to see it. She winces, and promptly blocks that avenue of thought. And tries to stop creating a list of those who _had_ seen it... The point is, she's a witch of no little talent, and she hadn't deigned to repair the article of clothing. She's not sure what to make of it. 

Lavender, thinking of the roommate who had shopped her to Professor McGonagall, would have sorted it in a flash. Then she'd have embellished it beyond recognition; Lav's taste is questionable at best. But in retrospect, Hermione finds it a little embarrassing that Lav's seen her in the bra. Parvati, too, come to think of it. Fay and Georgina are both less likely to notice or care. Hermione knows she's not great with transfiguring clothes, but any and all of them could have easily shown her how to sort the bra, if she'd been unable to do it herself. They'd have relished the opportunity to do so, even, and been pleased to know something she didn't for once. 

And that is probably the _exact_ reason she doesn't ask for their help, and she _doesn't_ perform _those_ kinds of charms. She doesn't wish to be lumped in with them, to be seen as shallow or empty-headed, or to compete on such frivolous levels. 

She wishes to be taken _seriously_. 

Now she's wondering if running about in worn underclothes is the way to go about it. 

Probably not. 

She takes a seat on the bed to pull on her trainers and resolves to at least consider asking the Matron, when she returns, if she'd possibly mind showing her how she went about making the top. Maybe. If she doesn't seem too busy, that is. 

She'll give it some thought. 

She reaches for her wand, deciding to transfigure her trainers a dark green to match her new top, as a first step in that direction. As her hand closes on her wand, however, there's a swirl of magic at her chest, and the purple badge that identifies the Muggle-born stitches itself onto her new top. 

Holy Cricket. 

This is the first new article of clothing she's had since the Muggle-born Student Registration Act was passed, and she hadn't realised how it was done. At the time she'd registered, the blasted badge appeared on the clothes she was wearing, but that could just as easily have been linked to the simple _act_ of registration. When she had returned to her room, it was on nearly every other article of clothing she owned, _including_ her pyjamas and bathing suit, a source of no little annoyance. At least the underclothing had been spared. There's that. Although how it knew to distinguish between her bra and bikini top...

This would seem to prove that the application of the badge is linked to her wand, which confirms all of her worst suspicions about the registering they were forced to do with them in September. 'Harmless' her arse. Ron is an _idiot_. 

She double checks the Infirmary gown in which she spent the night. No sign of it there. She thinks about whether she'd had her wand in her hand... She most certainly had, and she'd used it, too. So... Of course! The gown isn't _hers_. 

Interesting. 

There the damn badge sits, detracting quite ostentatiously from the beauty of the top to her way of thinking. In truth, it's not nearly as bad as she thinks, or there'd have been more opposition - the people behind it also understand something of human nature, but for Hermione it's a blight if only for the principle of the thing. 

The sheeple had hardly fussed. Not in any _real_ way. Well, _just wait_ until the thing starts popping up on their formal robes and see how they like it then... 

She's not wrong. There's no Yule Ball this year, and the Muggle-born and -raised factions have far fewer balls and formal functions at which they're welcomed than the pure-bloods do. It's no coincidence that the Act to register the adults as well doesn't pass until the new year and the danger of anyone having to wear dress robes for the holiday festivities has safely passed. It won't be until Valentine's, and its related events, when they start kicking off, and by then it will be rather too late to make a difference. 

Sheeple indeed.

Hermione glares at the symbol. (It's unimpressed.) It manifests as a relatively small purple isosceles triangle with a thick underline extending a little to either side, representing sort of a stylised witch's hat. The Muggle-raised, like Harry, sport the same shape in orange. 

There _had been_ some complaint about the naff colours. 

Obviously _that_ was _so_ much more offensive than the fact they were required to _register_ in the first place, or were _branded_ like livestock... Hermione has little patience for much of the idiocy around her. _She_ suspects orange and purple were chosen as the two remaining secondary colours guaranteed to show up regardless of a student's House colours. 

Given the absence of Muggle-borns in Slytherin, she can't help wondering that green hadn't been in the running after all. It wouldn't have had to show up on _their_ clothes, and would have had the best contrast with the Gryffindor set. Well, unless you were colourblind... She considers fleetingly if wizards even _can_ be colourblind, or if that's just another mundane affliction to which they're immune... But perhaps they didn't want to sully the House colour by association. She'd wonder if she's being unfair or become biased by the events of last night if it weren't for the fact that every instance of bigotry she's encountered happened to be from Slytherins. 

Again a wave of guilt hits her as she stops her rant cold to remember a _Slytherin_ , _the_ Slytherin, had risked _his_ wellbeing for _hers_ last night. She can be a really _horrible_ person sometimes. She means to rectify that immediately. As she's now dressed, there's no sign of Madam Pomfrey, and she's got nothing better to do here, she thinks she's managed to justify, at least to herself, going to check on just that Slytherin while she waits for breakfast. 

A last look at her things, and her gaze alights again on her bra. In light of the unexpected windfall of the new clothing from the Matron, Hermione permits herself an extravagance. A Wingardium Leviosa has the bit of underclothing floating, and an Incendio reduces it to ash which she promptly Vanishes. It's _cathartic_ , but possibly not nearly as feministic as it might sound. One should never underestimate the value of a good underwire. 

Her blouse from last night, however, she leaves untouched. In some corner of her mind, it really _does_ represent a testament to what the Professor had done for her. She'll never wear it again, not after what happened, but she also won't dispose of it. Never. If she manages to survive the war, it's likely to be with her for the next one hundred and twenty some years. 

A Reducio and a V-shaped swish of her wand soon has it shrunk. She carefully wraps the miniaturised blouse in a bit of tissue before she places it like some kind of token in the safety of her jeans pocket. No one will accidentally dispose of it in her absence. Satisfied, she rises and heads once more to the room at the back. 

When Madam Pomfrey arrives a little while later bearing porridge, she finds the young witch seated in the chair next to Severus' bedside. 

  



	17. 11 08d Saturday - Rounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hermione, Poppy, Albus, Harry_

_When Madam Pomfrey arrives a little while later bearing porridge, she finds the young witch seated in the chair next to Severus' bedside_. Having decided Severus could use more good will in his life, she doesn't chide the young woman for her impertinence; she merely gives her the tray with her breakfast and summons a seat to join her on the other side of Severus' bed. 

When she discovers no rebuke in the Matron's expression, Hermione relaxes a little and thanks her for the food. Hermione tries the porridge; it's every bit as bland as she remembers. Making appropriate noises about how terribly hot it still is, she pushes the tray to the side and suggests she'll eat it later, ardently planning to Vanish it the moment the Mediwitch's back is turned. 

Poppy smiles knowingly; she's spent decades watching patients Evanesco their food. Severus himself has been doing it for roughly two decades. She was actually a little relieved when he started; it meant he wasn't quite so desperately hungry anymore. Miss Granger's Exploding Snap face may leave much to be desired, but her manners are perfectly acceptable. 

The Matron pulls another phial of Calming Draught from her pocket which she hands to her patient, who again takes it with no complaint. That will doubtlessly make the conversations to come easier. 

But Hermione manages to surprise her with where she takes the conversation next. She raises the empty phial and wiggles it demonstratively between her fingers, "May I keep it?" 

"Certainly, if you'd like," the Mediwitch replies, although she can't imagine what for. She hadn't taken the witch for a Niffler. Very well, if her patient won't go where they must, Poppy will simply have to. "What are your immediate plans?" She asks her, almost as though speaking of the holidays. 

Hermione's glad she has, because she was a little uncertain how to broach this. Somehow it strikes her as odd, although it's not, that the decision should be up to her, but she's relieved if it is.

"I had hoped to stay here a little longer." She had actually hoped to stay _right there_ if she has her choice, but she certainly wasn't going to lead with that. She places the empty phial on her breakfast tray. When Madam Pomfrey doesn't object outright to the idea of Hermione remaining in the Infirmary, she continues, "As I'm not permitted to speak about what happened last night, and I'd prefer not lying to everyone about it, I was hoping..."

"To hide out here for a while, perhaps until the Oath expires tomorrow night?" It's hardly an amusing situation, but there's something between the embarrassment and relief on the young witch's face that strikes Poppy involuntarily as funny. When the woman nods enthusiastically, almost comically, at the suggestion, Poppy suppresses her amusement and answers, "That would be agreeable. You're welcome to stay." She can't help thinking it might give her some time to come to terms with what happened and what she wants to tell her friends. 

When Miss Granger's eyes then dart to Severus, still unconscious between them, Poppy finally does chuckle and suggests, "Maybe you'd even like to help me a little around here?" Ah... If her body language can be trusted, that's a firm 'yes'. 

Hermione is spared answering by a chime of the Matron's wards. Someone has entered the Infirmary. She rises to investigate, leaving her patients alone. 

Once she's left, Hermione Scourgifies the empty phial, removes the miniature top from the previous evening from her pocket and unwraps the tissue. She then carefully places the blouse in the phial, stoppers it and with incredible precision, cautiousIy, very cautiously Reducios the phial around it. With it now well protected, she returns it to her pocket, fingering it very deliberately for luck. 

Inexplicably, that act leaves her feeling better, more confident and optimistic as she looks at the unconscious man next to her. "Hang in there, Sir," she tells him, much like he'd said to her just last night. "The worst is over, and this will pass soon." 

She only hopes it's _true_. 

_Severus has_ far _too much experience with these kinds of things. He_ knows _they're both still very much in danger. He keeps chasing after the witch, and he keeps catching up to her, but just as reliably she disappears as he does and his arms close on air... He keeps sawing, sawing at her bonds, but somehow he never manages to get her to safety..._

For a brief moment Hermione thinks she sees his eyes moving beneath his lids. She wonders if she should call Madam Pomfrey back to check on him, but when she looks at him closely again, she reluctantly decides she was mistaken. It was just wishful thinking. 

With a heavy sigh, she takes advantage of the privacy and Evanescos the porridge. 

* * *

  


After breakfast, Albus enters the Infirmary to find it puzzlingly empty. There's no sign of any of the three people the castle had indicated he'd find there. He pokes his head into Poppy's office, still no trace of the woman. Well, it's not like Severus can have wandered off, poor wretch. She's probably with him, wherever she's moved him. 

Albus is _incredibly_ disappointed to note that Miss Granger is gone. He had thought her both far more grateful _and_ loyal. And here the chit seems to have... _scarpered_. He had half assumed the Oath he had her take would have her eager to avoid her friends, if the events of the previous night hadn't already provided her with sufficient cause to do so. This, _this_ is likely to throw a spanner in the works. 

Bugger!

He's well on his way to becoming highly annoyed when Poppy puts in an appearance. His expression is quickly schooled, and he's the picture of benevolence long before she reaches him. The flash of irritation is gone so quickly, she decides she imagined it. 

"Hello, Poppy. I trust you slept well?" He smiles ever so kindly. "And how are our patients this morning?"

"Yes, thank you, Albus, I did. _She's_ doing beautifully, all considered, although I think we should keep her on the Calming Draught until she's had some time to process things." 

"Quite. Absolutely. As you think best. And Severus?"

"I'm afraid there's been no change in Severus' condition, although that's probably a good thing given the alternatives. We couldn't have expected any better with the state he was in last night."

"When do you think he might wake?" 

"With luck, tomorrow."

"We'll just have to keep our fingers and toes crossed then, won't we?" He knows full well she's picturing those very toes of his in his brightly coloured socks; he's the embodiment of the quirky, avuncular old man. He looks around and then innocently enquires, "And where's our Miss Granger?"

"I have her keeping an eye on Severus for me," Poppy answers without hesitation. Few people question her in her Infirmary, and presenting the situation this way is more likely to make it seem perfectly... natural. To her way of thinking, it's hardly _unnatural_ for the little witch to take an interest in his recovery, but she doesn't wish to expose her to censure. Or herself either for that matter.

"Oh, is she now? How lovely." He battles to contain his delight. This is certainly _promising_. "I'll go have a word with her then. I'll stop by to speak with you before I leave," he dismisses her with practised ease. Poppy hardly notices, but finds herself heading automatically for her office instead of back to Severus' room. 

That leaves her chair free for Albus as he comes floating into the little room. "Good morning, Miss Granger. How are you feeling today? Have you recovered from your ordeal?"

"Oh, good morning, Sir. I'm feeling much better, thank you for asking." Albus secretly thinks she has the potion to thank for that, but it would be counterproductive to point that out. For a couple of reasons.

"Good, good, very glad to hear it. I gave your situation a great deal of thought last night, and I must admit it has me most worried. I believe I have, however, struck upon a solution that I wanted to speak to you about, a way to ensure your safety..." 

His spiel is interrupted by a rather deliberately loud, "Mr. Potter, where do you think you're going?" trumpeting in from Poppy in the main room, undoubtedly to give them some warning. He takes the hint. 

"I suspect in light of how Harry feels about the good Professor, and the fact we haven't reached a decision yet about what to tell him about last night, that it would be best if he found you in your own bed, don't you agree?"

Hermione instantly sees the wisdom in this, having already risen nervously at Madam Pomfrey's outburst. She can hear voices outside, where the Matron is no doubt questioning Harry and holding him up for them. Hermione's beginning to reevaluate what she knows of the woman; she's a good deal more subtle than she had previously given her credit for.

The Headmaster emerges from the room first, and with a slight wave of his wand shifts the curtained screen by her bed forward enough that it provides cover for her to slip from the private room and into her bed without being noticed. Professor Dumbledore gives her a friendly nod and softly tells her, "We'll continue this later, my dear," before heading towards the front of the room where he greets Harry with a hearty, "Why, hello, Harry. Good lad, although I think you'll find she prefers black currants." 

"Oh, um, good morning, Sir, I, uh..." 

"Yes, of course. Have a nice visit," he replies, all smiles and twinkling eyes, and drifts off to speak to Poppy in her office. 

"Morning, 'Mione. How are you doing?" Harry asks as he comes over and takes the seat next to her bed. 

"Hi, Harry. Alright, thanks," she responds somewhat subdued, still undecided what tone to take or how she wants to deal with the situation and him going forward. 

"Yeah, McGonagall said..."

" _Professor_ McGonagall," Hermione corrects without thinking. 

Harry smirks, she's apparently perfectly fine. It doesn't occur to him that she'd probably still do that were she on her last legs. "Right. She told us that you were in the Infirmary. Good thing, too, because Lav's story about what you were up to kept getting more creative with each retelling."

"What on earth would she have to tell about it? I just wasn't _there_. That's pretty thin for a story."

"Yeah, well, you know Lav..."

"Yes, I do," Hermione readily agrees, her lips pressed into a tight line in annoyance at the thought. 

Harry tries to distract her and cheer her up. "I brought you a couple of baps and a pot of jam. The food here isn't really..." Looking about to see the Matron's not visible, he pulls the food out from where it was hidden in a napkin under his robes. 

"No, it really isn't, is it?" She agrees with a smile. 

"Except it's strawberry, and I guess it should've been black currant..." He has no idea whatsoever how the Headmaster had known what he'd brought with him, only that he'd been rumbled. 

"Strawberry will be lovely. Thanks, Harry. You're my hero." Hermione gives him a genuinely warm smile. It really was frightfully kind of Harry to have thought to bring her something to eat. 

"I see you've been reading my press. Don't you dare believe a word of it," he tries to joke, waggling a finger at her scoldingly. The 'Quibbler' article was still causing him some trouble. People kept transfiguring his things green in passing in the hallways now, and Gin was still put out. He didn't mind the green so much as long as they stuck to his clothes, but a few had tried to dye his hair, with mixed results. He's probably lucky it's naturally so dark.

 _Ginny_ had gone so far as to turn his _skin_ a mottled green. It wasn't quite the resounding success she'd hoped. Harry suspects she had a few tips from Fred and George, blighters, but they didn't exactly pan out. Gin has quite the temper, and Harry spent a few days in October looking too much like Trevor or a walking, human-sized patch of mould-like Bundimun for comfort. At least he smelt better.

"Wouldn't dream of it, Harry. I've met far too many of the reporters." That statement had been true when Rita Skeeter was the _only_ one she'd met. It's only grown more so with each additional reporter she encounters.

Harry smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. He's all too obviously uncomfortable about something. She knows him too well for him to hide it, and so she waits him out. Experience shows if she does, he'll spill sooner rather than later. Sure enough, in no time at all, his hand's ruffling his hair or rubbing his neck, his eyes are carefully studying the ground, and he begins, "Ron would've come, but he has Quidditch practice..." 

"I understand," she assures him. She does, but probably not what they're both pretending she's implying. 

His lie is more transparent than Nearly-Headless Nick, and the way he musses his hair would give it away if the simple logic of the fact that they're both on the _same team_ hadn't. But Hermione appreciates that he's trying to spare her feelings. Or maybe he's just trying to cover for Ron. When she thinks about it, she's not really sure which of them he's trying to protect. She gives her friend the benefit of the doubt and decides _both_. 

Frankly, McGonagall hadn't made Hermione's condition sound all that bad, and Ron's still annoyed with her about... Actually it's kind of hard to keep up with why. _She_ was annoyed about the Registration thing. _He_ was annoyed that _she_ was annoyed. And then _Ron_ was annoyed about her reaction to his Halloween costume; he'd been sort of proud of that. And then Harry thinks _Hermione_ might have been annoyed about _that_. It's gotten pretty hard to keep track of, and Harry's basically lost patience with it. And Ron really _was_ practising. Only he didn't _have_ to, he'd _chosen_ to do it instead of joining Harry to visit their friend. But Harry just can't see the benefit in saying so.

"There's a game coming up..." he continues a little lamely. 

"Absolutely," she agrees. "In two weeks, wasn't it?" She looks almost innocent as she says it. 

"Well, yeah. But it's against Slytherin, y'know..." 

"Oh, yes, I imagine I do. King Weasley and all that." 

"Yeah..." The silence stretches awkwardly. Hermione thinks she might just be able to hear the sound of a Chizpurfle's claws clicking somewhere in the distance. Harry's eager to change the topic. Gesturing at her bandaged arm, he shakes his head and says, "Merlin, 'Mione, you really need to be more careful."

After Professor McGonagall's comments earlier, Hermione's probably a little more sensitive to suggestions _this_ might somehow be _her_ fault. It definitely doesn't help that she holds _Harry and Ron_ to blame for instigating the situation through their initial attacks on Malfoy. _Or_ their subsequent fighting with him yesterday. And it _really_ stuck in her craw that they had stood silently by as Lavender and Parvati and the others had practically chased her from the study niche last night. Not that anyone could have known what would happen, but still... At the least she feels they exacerbated things. She's _reasonably_ sure _she_ didn't contribute to the mess. It's been almost four years since she slapped the ferret, and he hadn't mentioned that _once_ yesterday. He certainly hadn't been the one who slapped _her_ last night. 

"Like you haven't spent _plenty_ of time here before," she objects a bit petulantly. 

"Yeah, but that's doing stuff that's actually _supposed_ to be dangerous, like Quidditch, and not things like going to the Library or walking down a hallway. Next it'll just be breathing or something. You really need to be more careful." He's trying for a laugh, but he's just putting his foot in it. Maybe even both feet.

"That's not fair, Harry. Neither the basilisk nor last night were in any way my fault." Truth be told, she can't help thinking there's a disproportionate involvement of Weasleys in both instances. 

That's probably not exactly fair either, particularly Ginny's involvement with the basilisk. She'd been almost as much a victim in that as Hermione had yesterday. But Hermione still resents that Ginny never told anyone about it, and Hermione ended up spending the best part of a month petrified as a result. If the encounter with the basilisk had occurred even a _single_ day earlier, Hermione would have been _dead_ instead. And she would have been _then_ , too, if she hadn't just found that page about basilisks. _That's_ hard to overlook. 

If she stretches things, and today she's somewhat inclined to, she could even blame her stint as a cat person on Ginny's silence, but she freely acknowledges her own role in that. 

Worse yet, the underlying issue second year had been problems between _Mr._ Weasley and Mr. Malfoy. So that's now at least _three_ Weasleys involved, and only _two_ Malfoys, if she's counting noses, which she is. And she sort of _expects_ problems from the bigoted blond pure-bloods. The _Weasleys_ are supposed to be her friends and allies. With 'friends' like _these_...

And _oddly_ neither of the two Weasleys currently still at school have bothered to come to visit her... Maybe she's just feeling put out, but it hurts just the same. 

"I was _exactly_ where I was _supposed_ to have been, doing _exactly_ what I _should_ have been doing. And then it happened _out of the blue_. This _wasn't_. My. Fault," she further defends herself against his non-attack, although Harry's disinclined to think she _should_ have been studying on a Friday night.

"Well, I guess some people are just more 'incident' prone than others," Harry sums it up patly. 

She _knows_ he has no idea what happened, but that particular statement just... It just _gets_ to her. Badly. And between that and her irritation with Ron, _and_ Ginny, too, to be honest, her aggravation over Professor McGonagall's and Harry's comments about blame, however 'innocent' they may have been... Hermione's had quite enough.

"I appreciate your stopping by, Harry. It was nice to see you. And thanks again for the rolls." It's polite. Perfectly polite, and yet Harry finds himself standing up with a clear sense of having been excused. 

"Sure, 'Mione. Feel better soon, yeah?"

"Sure, Harry. Thanks again." He doesn't understand why, but he senses she's angry. He's reasonably sure this is down to her issues with Ron again, and he can't help thinking of them _both_ with some annoyance. He hates being caught in the middle. It's not like _he_ caused their problems. But he doesn't stop to question if his fence-sitting isn't part of the reason she's losing patience with him, too.

When Albus sees Harry leave the Infirmary, he heads back to the young witch to finish their chat.

  



	18. 11 08e Saturday - Denial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hermione, Poppy, Albus_

Poppy's quite sure she doesn't know _what_ to think. Albus has just spotted Mr. Potter leaving, and is off to speak to her young patient now, and she's still frozen, sitting at her desk in stunned silence for a number of heartbeats. She feels like she's been Confunded. Immobulused and Confunded. 

_That_ does _not_ happen often. Poppy is generally quite unflappable. 

She's not at all sure how Miss Granger will take what he has to say. Shooting up from her seat at that thought, she rushes from the room and bustles past Albus mumbling something about needing to check on Severus. She disappears into the back room, closing the door behind her. 

A wave of her wand renders the wall see-through again from her side, and she turns to watch the Headmaster approaching Miss Granger. She wonders why she finds herself thinking of a predator stalking its prey. She's sure she doesn't know. 

She can't hear anything they're saying, and she's reasonably certain even if she had some kind of charm for that, it wouldn't matter because Albus must surely be using a Privacy Charm for this sort of thing. She wonders if her wards will be able to tell if Miss Granger calls for her. 

She _bloody well_ hopes so. 

They should supersede everything in the Infirmary. But she's not sure how they'll fare against Albus, and _particularly_ not as he's the Headmaster. That really does make a good deal of difference.

Oh, Merlin.

She's in such a state as she watches the two in the next room, she absently sinks to sitting on Severus' bed. There are still two chairs in the little room, and she's taken neither. That's not like her. She just sits there on the bed next to him with Severus at her back, regularly making unconscious 'Oh, dear', 'Poor lamb', 'Merlin help us' and the occasional 'Oh, Severus' noises. 

Some or all of that registers with him in some fashion, as a scan would clearly show. Unfortunately, she's too distracted to even think of performing one. 

Her hand goes out to close on his arm and she sits there holding it, stroking it as though to console him. To comfort him in the face of... He's probably _fortunate_ to still be _unconscious_. She snorts at herself in derision. A coma is hardly _good_ fortune, and he can't stay like this forever. He'll wake, and then what? Escape his certain fate? Naturally, because Severus is the soul of luck. She squeezes his arm just at the thought and lets out a few more half sighed 'Oh, Severus's. 

That's not a good sign. 

_He keeps sawing, sawing at her bonds, he never stops... He vanishes the blood, heals her lip, repairs her clothing, but she keeps reappearing over and over again in that chair and safety eludes them..._

She can't believe what Albus is suggesting. 

Bonding. 

It was old-fashioned even when _she_ was a girl, and Poppy feels old as time. Perhaps not quite as old as Albus, but still... 

Bonding!

She can't recall ever even having been to a bonding ceremony. _That's_ how rare it is. She's trying to think... Yes, when she was a small girl, she'd known an aged couple in Hogsmeade who were bonded. Merlin. _Rare_ indeed. 

She stops to think about how she had let the young woman sit here watching over Severus because he needs more people, more support in his life, and Poppy wonders if she's all that different to Albus. _Of course_ she is. That's hardly on the same level as an _irrevocable bond_. 

But then as he explained it, it's for the _witch's_ protection, too. Poppy had seen the state of her last night. The abrasions. Their locations. The tattered top. It was all too apparent. She was clearly at risk, and yet none of Poppy's thoughts about letting Miss Granger express her gratitude towards Severus had been for the _young woman's_ benefit. Except possibly to assuage her guilt at his current state. That was the extent of it and that hardly counts.

Poppy's concern had been for _him_. Granted, _he_ warranted it. He was in far worse shape than the woman, and _that_ regularly. But if she thinks about it in that light, Poppy is actually _worse_ than Albus. At least Albus is trying to help them _both_ with this plan. 

Merlin, she really doesn't know what to think. 

And as he pointed out, only last night she had begged, _ordered_ him to come up with something. And here she now sits doubting. They need to do _something_. Could this really be the answer?

She just doesn't know...

It's probably a good thing then that she's not one of the people who has to decide.  


* * *

  


Albus puts on a good show. He's got two people to convince. Poppy is as transparent as her wall, there's no chance she isn't watching. He'd thought about asking Miss Granger to take another Oath not to discuss his suggestion, but he couldn't see how to mask the request as benign. _Or_ remotely reasonable. 

In view of the Oath she's already taken, he doesn't imagine she'll wish to discuss this with anyone unaware of the events of last night. She'd have no way to explain the danger she's in or the _need_ for the bonding. The only likely candidate for her to speak with is Poppy, and Albus' talk with _her_ sorted _that_. 

Poppy had _pleaded_ with him after all... Well she's now very much in the know and _complicit_. Or that's how she'll see it after the fact. It was simple, appeal to her concern for Severus and convince her this should keep _both_ of them safe. Poppy will feel guilty that she hadn't been suitably concerned about the little witch. She really is too easy. 

The little witch herself is a good deal more complicated...  


* * *

  


The Headmaster has left Hermione with a great deal to think about. Beyond bonding, what it actually even means, and does she wish to do it. And if so, with... _him_. Professor _Snape_. 

_That's_ certainly a daunting thought. She chews her lip just thinking about it. Rather a lot. And then some.

She sits there staring into space for a while, unsure what to make of it all. 

Sensing _just_ how out of sorts the young witch might be, Poppy appears at her side with two mugs in hand and extends one to her, gently enquiringly, "Tea?"

Hermione takes it with great relief. 

It hasn't escaped Poppy that her patient seems to draw some comfort from reassuring herself that Severus is recovering. From the look of her pallor, she could use more comfort than the tea is liable to provide. She offhandedly suggests, "I was going to keep Severus company. Would you care to join me?" 

And sure enough, the young woman responds eagerly, "Yes, thank you. I'd like that very much," and rises to follow her back into the private room. 

A few flicks of her wand over her shoulder, and Poppy takes advantage of the witch's absence to make and freshen her bed, the coverlet folds together across its foot. There. Much better.

They retake their seats on either side of the still unconscious man. The Matron performs a few charms. Not everything she does has visible results, but Hermione can see she freshens his bedding and makes use of a Refreshing Charm on him, and then they sit, drinking their tea in silence for a time, each chasing her own thoughts. Poppy has decided not to volunteer any opinion on the matter the Headmaster discussed unless Miss Granger asks. 

Hermione for her part isn't remotely sure how to speak of it, and doesn't. She feels like the Professor hasn't recovered from his _last_ sacrifice on her behalf, and already a new one is being demanded of him. Or will be as soon as he wakes. That leaves her feeling like she's a burden, and she's far too uncomfortable to talk about it.

Instead, she asks, "You had said I might be able to help you?"

Poppy thinks that's an _excellent_ solution. She's rather concerned about the witch's reaction to her talk with Albus. She's had quite enough shocks this weekend. Poppy intends to keep an eye on her for the next couple of hours. If Miss Granger hadn't come with her to sit by Severus, Poppy would have simply turned the wall see-through again. This is simpler. 

She has only the two patients this weekend. Severus has seen to it that the Infirmary is well stocked. She's done inventory, everything is spotless and well organised... There is nothing for her to do but keep an eye on these two, and she plans to do just that and with a vengeance. 

"Let's have some lunch first, and then if you'd like, I could show you how to perform a few basic care taking spells?" She asks, confident in the response. 

And that's how they spend the next couple of hours. It begins with a General Diagnostic Charm. It doesn't reveal much. Miss Granger isn't a nurse or healer and wouldn't be able to use the spells restricted for their use, but it's a good basic spell, and a solid place to start. 

Poppy demonstrates on Severus and permits the younger woman to see the results. By default only the caster and those the caster allows can see them, privacy is an issue after all. It shows the patient's size, weight, and general condition, both magically and physically. In the very broadest terms, it also tells you if they need something, like food, fluids or blood. It can't differentiate between Spattergroit and Dragon Pox, obviously, but it _will_ tell you how ill a patient is. 

Poppy is quite sure being able to perform that Charm on Severus will give the young woman great peace of mind. The way she stares at the green glow that indicates his magic is nearly recovered is proof enough. 

"He's recovering nicely, Miss Granger." She points out the differences in the results and what to look for, and explains why it's very reassuring. "I think we can expect him to wake in the next couple of days. Maybe even tomorrow, with some luck. Soon he'll be storming about the castle as usual, believe me."

Hermione applies the Charm to herself again and again until she's sure she's mastered it. Then Madam Pomfrey volunteers as a test subject. Almost a little shyly, Hermione swishes her wand as taught and voices the incantation, Discerno. The Matron, it would seem, is in excellent health. The green and blue nimbuses indicating magical and physical wellbeing glow strong and steady, but Hermione can't help raising her eyebrows at the Mediwitch's weight.

Poppy laughs. The young woman really can't disguise a single thought. "I wear it well," she quips. 

But the Charm worked as it should, it's showing the results clearly and accurately, and Miss Granger has learned it quite quickly. She's known nursing students who needed a week to master it. Worse, she's _worked_ with some of them. 

"Nicely done," she compliments the younger witch's spell work, and then asks, "Would you like to try it on him?"

She needn't have asked. 

Poppy knows the minute she leaves the room, Miss Granger is going to cast the spell on him and leave it just as long as she can hold it. Well, if it gives her some kind of comfort, why not? The Charm works as it should, and Hermione finds herself again staring at the results that show the Professor's magic is almost back to normal. The halo is large and a strong, deep green. Hers is a good deal smaller and lighter by comparison. His current physical condition however leaves much to be desired. 

The spell provides her with a sense that he's generally in good shape. She can see the differences as she cast it on each of them, and she's pleased to note her casting of the spell shows the results almost as plainly as the Matron's. It helps that it isn't a complicated Charm. By tomorrow morning, she'll have mastered it to the extent that there's no discernible difference between their readings. 

The Professor is nominally in the best shape. She herself is in good condition. The Matron... well she's probably in quite good shape for her age. And then it indicates the current condition absolutely and compared to that baseline. Clearly, he's _actually_ in the worst shape of the three of them, but she hadn't needed a spell to know that. The coma was a bit of a giveaway. 

From there they progress to the Charms the Matron had performed on her only that morning. A Cleaning Charm for her clothes, related to the Scourgify, a Cleansing Charm to clean a person, a modification of the Tergeo, and a Dentifricium Charm to clean her teeth. That was completely new. Again, Hermione practises. She doesn't stop until she has a firm grip on all of them. Her gums sting by the time she has the hang of the Dentifricium - she may have performed it a good bit more often in a row than is recommended. But the Matron can't fault the witch's dedication. 

When she very clearly has it managed, Poppy nods her head towards Severus and tells her, "Well, go on then." When Hermione hesitates, she prods her again, "Just don't tell anyone." Silently she adds to herself, 'especially not him'. The younger witch can scarcely contain herself, she's practically vibrating with excitement. It amuses Poppy greatly to watch. 

Poppy has genuinely enjoyed teaching Miss Granger these things this afternoon. It occurs to her that it's something missing in her dealings with Nurse Wainscott, the woman simply has no desire to learn. In fact, she'd far rather stand around gossiping than improve her skills, and Poppy is forced to acknowledge that her assistant will never be able to take over Poppy's job unless she changes markedly. It's unlikely.

She's trying to decide as she watches Miss Granger work the Charm, where the source of the young witch's pleasure in it lies. Is she that happy to have learnt something new, to help someone, or to help Severus, specifically? Probably, possibly, definitely. And if the latter, which it clearly is, is it _helping_ him that affects her so, or having him _at her mercy_. 

She's not judging. Much. She could certainly understand the impulse. He's usually so imposing. It must make a difference to have _him_ defenceless at the tip of your wand. She asks herself if that isn't a component in her own attentive care of the man when he's unconscious. She prefers to couch that as 'maintenance', catching up on all the things she can't do when he's awake. And his usual irascible self.

A Tempus on her wand chimes and Poppy summons some potions. She hands Miss Granger her Calming Draught and again pours Severus' potions down his throat. Strengthening Potion, a Restorative, an Antispasmodic, Nutritive Potions... Comatose, he's nearly as easy to manage as Miss Granger. "It's gotten rather late," she points out to the young woman. "Would you care to join me for an early supper?" Miss Granger's glance and blush would indicate she's thinking of the Matron's waistline. Cheeky monkey. Poppy gives her a wry smile. 

Hermione realises with surprise just how hungry she is. The work had kept her mind off it. That and other things. She readily agrees, and the Matron calls for Polly, a house elf, and asks her to get them two dinner trays. Soon the witches are enjoying their meals. It helps, greatly, that it isn't the usual Infirmary fare, but what the Mediwitch herself eats from the Great Hall.

The Matron asks her how her studies are going. Hermione tells her a little about some of the things she's learning at the moment. It's inconsequential stuff, avoiding the topics in the back of both of their minds. 

As they finish their meals, Hermione takes the opportunity thank the Mediwitch again for the clothing she'd provided and compliment her on the beautiful top. It really does suit Hermione nicely. She asks Madam Pomfrey how she managed to tailor it so accurately. 

The older witch chuckles and tells her, "It's a variation on the Discerno you were practising earlier. It provides the measurements, from there it's simply a bit of careful Transfigurations work." 

She unpins the handkerchief from her apron and demonstrates the technique. It's soon turned into another top. "That's a little rough, you see here," she points to the neckline. Sure enough, Hermione can see that the lace doesn't quite line up like it does in the top she's currently wearing. The fit, however, she can tell just by looking now, would probably be ideal.

The Matron waves her wand again and returns the cloth to its original state. "Now if you take it more slowly," she does it again, more slowly this time, "you can direct the cloth, a bit here, some more there, what's used where, and... voilà!" Five, ten minutes at the most and once again, a beautiful top lies before them. Having spotted the disappointment when she ended the Incantation before, the Matron asks her, "Would you like it?" Hermione's grin answers that. "Well what colour then?"

They experiment a little more and opt for a deep burgundy. "I could show you that, too, if you'd like."

"I'm not keeping you from anything?" Hermione can't believe her luck. The Matron has been incredibly patient, and she's learnt quite a bit today. It's more than just how to perform a spell, Hermione learns those from books often enough, instead the Mediwitch is actually taking the time to explain to her why some things work and others don't. She's enjoying this immensely. She looks at her Professor a little guiltily. If he weren't lying _there_ , in _that_ state, this would have been a very nice afternoon. 

"No, not at all. This is quite enjoyable. I don't know when I last took the time to make some clothes. I had forgotten what fun it is. Most of the magic I do is about setting things to rights. It's nice to just _make_ something." Hermione can see what she means.

The Matron summons two more pieces of cloth, another handkerchief and what looks like a doily. She gives Hermione the simpler handkerchief and keeps the doily for herself, and demonstrating the technique as she goes, the women spend the next half an hour transfiguring until two more tops are finished. Hermione's is comparatively simple, but after several false starts and with slow and cautious work, she was able to make a perfectly passable result. It had made all the difference having someone with a practiced eye tell her where she was going wrong and _why_ , though. 

The top the Matron made is absolutely gorgeous. Thanks largely to the original material, it looks like it was made entirely of Venetian lace, strategically lined of course, and Hermione thinks it will look absolutely stunning on her. It doesn't seem like the sort of thing to wear to Madam Puddifoot's, however. To the enquiry for the colour, in a flash of inspiration, Hermione asks for a dark purple this time, thinking the Muggle-born badge will be less noticeable on the top. It would be a shame to detract from its beauty. 

The Matron hands it to her with a simple, "I thought you might find yourself wanting something nice to wear," and suddenly Hermione understands what she must have been thinking. She blushes as her eyes move to the Professor between them, and she only just manages to intelligibly mumble her thanks. 

"Well, I should get going." The Matron rises and summons another Calming Draught which she hands the younger witch, Hermione stands to take it, mirroring her. "Take this before you go to bed, and if you need anything else, call for me or Polly."

Hermione still hasn't quite found the courage to ask Madam Pomfrey what she thinks about the bonding, but she does manage to find enough to ask, "Would it be alright if I spent the night keeping watch again."

"You should probably get some sleep..." Poppy begins to object but sees that it's useless. However given Severus is now in a private room, she's really not sure about the seemliness of that. "It's highly irregular, Miss Granger. I'm not sure that it's proper." Which is rubbish. It _isn't_ proper; it _might_ be _understandable_. 

Hermione finally finds the strength to ask, "Do you know what Professor Dumbledore has proposed to have us do?" Poppy simply nods, still firmly biting her tongue on the topic. "Then where's the impropriety in that? As the Headmaster would have it, we're practically betrothed." 

"Well, I'm sure Severus will have a thing or two to say about that."

"Oh, I'm sure he'll have plenty to say about it as well. But will any of it make a difference?" Her nervousness is clear, but the woman has a surprisingly good read on the situation. Madam Pomfrey sinks her head slightly at that. The answer, naturally, is 'no'. Albus usually gets his way.

"I'll just watch," the young witch promises her. "I won't even cast any Charms on him without permission."

"The Discerno is perfectly acceptable. It won't affect him in the least," Poppy answers almost automatically. "Fine, if you insist, I guess that would be satisfactory." She thinks about it a little more and decides to assign the young woman a chore, as though she were on duty and here for a reason. Somehow that makes her feel better about it. 

"I can show you the Freshening Charm for the bedding." It proves to be a variant on the Cleaning Charm, it cleans the bedding and then tucks the patient in. Hermione soon has that under her belt as well. "You can perform those two Charms at will, the others only under my supervision. We're agreed?"

"Absolutely, Madam Pomfrey," she answers with an eager smile. "Thank you for taking the time to teach me so much today."

"Not at all, Miss Granger. As I said, I quite enjoyed it." She's hesitating, uncertain about something and not quite willing to leave. 

Hermione seizes the moment to ask the Matron something that's been puzzling her for a little while. Gesturing at the Professor lying between them and nodding in the direction of the main room, she asks "Why did he put me in _that_ bed?" 

He'd crossed the Infirmary and placed her in the second to last bed. She might have understood the _last_ bed, as an instinctive thing, furthest from the door. She'd have understood the _first_ bed, or the one closest to or furthest from the Floo or the Matron's office. Any of those she could have understood, but with all the beds to choose from, not the second to last.

Poppy smiles gently, looks at Severus and then at Miss Granger. She thinks for a moment if she should answer the question honestly or at all. She wouldn't want the witch to read anything into it, especially in light of what the Headmaster is suggesting, and yet... "Maybe it's force of habit. Keep in mind, he wasn't doing all that well after all, but the last bed is _his_. Has been since he was a student. If he isn't back here, he's there."

And he had placed her next to him. Hermione stands there quietly, blinking as she thinks about it. "Then maybe he won't mind me sitting here keeping watch over him after all."

There's something to it. 

With a final nod, the Matron summons the young woman's blanket from the main room, hands it to her and wishes her a good night.

  



	19. 11 08-09 Sat - Sun - Ruminations and Awakenings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hermione, Poppy, Luna, Albus, Severus_
> 
> ...some ruder than others.

As good as Hermione's day may have been, her night is far worse. She doesn't get much sleep. Again. 

She has a lot to think about, and those thoughts are far from relaxing. Keeping busy had gone a long way to stop her from obsessing about it too much, but she has decisions to take, and it would seem not much time in which to do it. Sat here in the quiet and dark, with nothing but the sound of _his_ breathing to keep her company, her thoughts apparently have nowhere else to go. 

Not the least bit conducive to getting any rest, for example, is what the Headmaster had said about how dangerous the situation has become for Muggle-born witches outside of the (clearly theoretical) safety of the school grounds. The 'Prophet' hasn't told the half of it. She's disappointed in herself that _that_ comes as any kind of surprise. It's not like she's ever considered them particularly _reliable_. And she should know better than most how they distort the truth. 

But somehow she had consoled herself that they present things _worse_ than they actually are, muckraking in their unbridled ambition to sell papers. It had provided a _little_ comfort. Things couldn't be _that_ bad out there then, were that the case. It appears she was sorely mistaken. 

And _seriously_ at risk. 

She had grossly underestimated how precarious her own situation as the 'Mudblood' friend of Harry Potter was. Yesterday was a real eye opener. A wake-up call. Perhaps even a call to action... She's just not sure what that action should be.

The Headmaster seems a good deal more certain what needs to be done. He suggested this... bonding - a _permanent_ solution, and isn't _that_ terrifying - and a series of Vows to go with it. Three, to be precise: Fidelity, Protection and Loyalty. 

The _Fidelity Vow_ , apparently meant to be mutual, excludes the possibility of... _relations_ outside of the bond. Neither one of them had addressed the implication that _within_ the bond that would clearly be... possible. 

No, they skirted that very nicely. 

The Protection and Loyalty Vows would each be one-sided. Professor Snape would take the Protection Vow, were he willing, a sort of promise to act to keep her safe. And she would take the Loyalty Vow in response, which should keep his secrets as a spy both for the Order and the Death Eaters safe. That hardly seems a fair trade, especially as his secrets wouldn't have been at risk otherwise. 

There was also a method of bonding their magic. A way of combining strength so the bondmate in need could draw from the other. The Headmaster was vague, and didn't sound too hopeful that it would be a consideration. She assumes his judgment is correct in that matter, but honestly can't understand why he's hopeful that _any_ of it would be a consideration. It's not like he doesn't know the Professor...

She'd had to fight not to blush too deeply when Professor Dumbledore spoke of the Fidelity Vow in light of some of the things she'd fantasised about last night. In light of a great _many_ things she'd fantasised about. Heavens. She hopes her blush wasn't _too_ noticeable. And then it dawns on her he'd performed Legilimency on her while she was still very much in the grip of that damnable potion. 

Well then. 

She delicately plucks imaginary lint from her top and doesn't think about _any_ of that. Much. She's not blazingly successful. 

What she _is_ is a little heated.

She'll count herself lucky not to die of embarrassment here and now. Lucky _enough_.

Madam Pomfrey had been unsure about allowing her to stay here for the night. If she'd had even the faintest notion of some of her thoughts from the night before, the Matron would _never_ have agreed to letting her keep vigil. She probably wouldn't even allow her in the same room with _supervision_. Hermione shakes her head and lets out a huff of embarrassed laughter. Not proper, indeed. 

Well the potion was hardly _her_ fault. 

And if she could disavow more of those thoughts from last night, she might even feel that presents an adequate defence... 

As to the business at hand, she tries to pull her thoughts together, she can't hide out here forever. Come graduation in June, the protection Hogwarts offers her, such as it is, she scoffs, will be gone. If she accepts the concept of bonding as a viable option, and she's not sure if it is, then the bondmate needs to be someone who would be able to withstand the threat bonding her presents. There probably aren't many for whom that's the case. And with the addition of the Protection Vow, that's doubtless even more true. 

The Headmaster had expended a bit of effort explaining that it would mean almost certain death for Ron, as though _that_ were even a consideration. Bonding him, not his death, obviously. Well, _neither_ really. She'd prefer to take her chances. 

The same was true for Neville, too, for that matter, assuming he could be prevailed upon to entertain such a solution. Or any of Ron's brothers, with the possible exception of Bill, and _he_ was married anyway. Harry was naturally completely out of the question; they'd only succeed in making each other bigger targets. 

Professor Dumbledore then explained how Professor Snape's dual role meant he could convince the Death Eaters that he was _required_ to protect her to maintain his cover as their spy in the Order. So in addition to being one of the better _qualified_ individuals in terms of magical ability, he was also rather uniquely positioned to convince them to just... leave her alone. That has a certain appeal.

The fact that his was the only name mentioned that caused her to blush escaped neither. She's valiantly pretending it did. But she probably only blushed because of the circumstances of yesterday. There's no need to blow that out of proportion...

The _clear_ problem with the bonding suggestion, beyond whether _he_ would ever consider agreeing to it, was that the Professor's intervention on her behalf just last night had nearly cost him his life. Not even the Headmaster had disputed that fact. And she finds herself utterly unwilling to put her Potions Professor at risk _again_. 

The Headmaster had recognised her resistance rather quickly and tried to convince her this was in the _Order's_ interests. Surely that was of greatest importance to her, was it not? One of her highest priorities? Given her unflagging support... And she wouldn't wish to endanger their plans... 

When she didn't nibble, he shifted tactics, and had then tried to persuade her that _Professor Snape_ might need her to do this for _his_ protection. Obviously she would be interested in helping him any way she could. True enough, beyond a doubt, but the argument seemed highly... specious.

Honestly, she'll need to hear _that_ from the Potions Master _himself_ before she's willing to credit it. The fact is, _he_ has demonstrated an obvious willingness to put _her_ safety, _her_ interests before _his own_. She believes she can trust him to tell her what's in _her_ interest. Not necessarily what's in _his_ , but even still, that's already half the battle won. And she's certain: with more facts, she can begin to anticipate what _he_ needs.

_Fortuitously_ , the Headmaster had then _just so happened_ to provide her with those longed for facts. She wonders if he used Legilimency on her given the auspicious timing. He claims one of Professor Snape's driving motives is an abiding intolerance for violence against women. 

Professor Snape's mother Eileen, a pure-blood witch, had married a Muggle, and the Professor grew up as Hermione and Harry had in _that_ world. Hermione would _never_ have suspected; he seems so perfectly _integrated_. Hints were dropped that perhaps his surroundings there were much less pleasant than hers or even Harry's for it to be such an issue for him. As such, he apparently has _very_ atypical views on the matter for a wizard. 

In the wizarding world, wands are the great equaliser. Generally speaking, a witch can shift as much as a wizard or duel just as fiercely. Only in very rare cases, when the wielder is seriously injured and magic is used to the utmost, like the Professor had yesterday, is it a question of the individual's strength. And even _then_ , the individual's innate power and physical fitness play a far more significant role than gender. At worst, it's a slight disadvantage and nothing more. As such, quarter is generally neither given nor asked, and not expected. 

In the Muggle world, on the other hand, physical strength and size can make a _huge_ difference, if only because the _perception_ of _being_ an easier target increases the chances of _becoming_ one. Hermione understands this. The Potions Master would seem to have the corresponding hard limits, and those are currently being assailed by the Death Eaters. Professor Dumbledore's hope is that Hermione's presence could put a stop to that. 

Somehow. 

She senses she hasn't gotten the whole story. She also senses she now knows far more than _he_ would ever want her to, and feels guilty about it. But it leaves her thinking long and hard about how he'd responded yesterday, how he'd positioned himself, bravely, protectively, without hesitation between her and her attackers last night, and what she should do now.

She imagines that will probably be up to _him_. 

"So what do you think, Sir? What should we should do?"

_He never stops. He keeps_ sawing _at her bonds,_ vanishing _the blood,_ healing _her bloodied lip,_ repairing _her clothes, but she..._ She _doesn't stop either. She just keeps_ returning _in that thrice damned chair. He begins transfiguring her clothes, into iron, then steel, hoping_ that _might protect her, but it just turns to rust. He thinks it's because of the tears..._

She sits there in the dark, biting her lip and staring at the man, stupidly hoping for a response. Unsurprisingly, she gets no answer. She hadn't expected one, but it helps, at least a little, to voice her considerations out loud, to use him as a sounding board. Her thoughts return to her discussion with Professor Dumbledore.

Hermione isn't sure what to think about her unwillingness to trust the Headmaster's word. Harry trusts him. Well, not implicitly. He's never been willing to believe him about Professor Snape. And she's not sure how good a judge of things Harry really is. But her distrust of the Order's leader leaves her feeling very out of sorts. 

She spends some time mulling that over as she looks at the man stretched out on the bed beside her. 

His skin is still incredibly pale, she wonders if he's regained any colour at all since he collapsed. The Infirmary gown doesn't help, it washes out the wearer, and makes it hard to judge. She performs the Discerno, again, and comforts herself that the readings are promising. But then they were unlikely to have changed much since she last cast it. 

His arms lie exposed above the blanket, and she stares at the Dark Mark for some time. It occurs to her that some hours ago she'd been whinging about being 'branded'. It further strikes her that _that_ is just another word she doesn't seem to use correctly. The Professor seems to be redefining a good many terms for her, in a very short space of time, and he's not even _conscious_. 

She really needs to work on her sense of perspective. It's not good to have to wear the badge, no one would argue otherwise. It's worse, naturally, that it's _automatic_. But she's hardly _branded_. 

Which reminds her there's a gown waiting for her without the badge in the other room for her to sleep in. She goes to change for the night, and then returns to her post, wrapping herself tightly in the blanket as she settles in. It really is incredibly soft and smells wonderful, and only as she's falling asleep does it occur to her that she hadn't even _touched_ a textbook today. Somehow it didn't seem to matter.

* * *

  


By and large, things worked out much as Albus had hoped, even if not quite as he envisioned. Miss Granger was left unsure if this isn't more for _her_ benefit than Severus', as he intended. She can't quite understand how it would actually help him, which goes a long way to ensuring that. Ultimately, however, she's _unconvinced_. She's not just taking his word for things. On the other hand, she hasn't _rejected_ the idea. 

She wants to hear confirmation from _Severus_. Albus is pleased. _That_ works just as well for the solution as what he'd originally planned.

She had had a number of concerns, predominantly reasonable. Many of them he had addressed; some of them he couldn't without Severus. They would simply have to discuss them together when he wakes, hopefully tomorrow. 

He's optimistic.

* * *

  


Hermione wakes bright and early from another pleasant dream, still in her chair next to the Professor, when Madam Pomfrey enters the room with potions for each of them. The Mediwitch casts a far more complicated Charm than the Discerno on the Professor, allowing Hermione to see the results, and explaining what they mean and what they can expect. The news is very good, and Hermione is relieved to hear he should be waking soon. Today, by the look of things. A matter of hours, even. 

They play their game with breakfast again. Again a tray with porridge is left next to her. Again she makes a series of polite sounds about eating it later. And again she'll Vanish it as soon as the Matron leaves. There is something comforting about routines. 

Madam Pomfrey asks if she would like to use the house elf to fetch some of her things, which she gladly accepts. It probably _is_ about time she did some schoolwork. She's had roughly thirty-six hours off. With only seven months until N.E.W.T.s, that's almost unconscionable. 

As the Mediwitch turns to leave Hermione calls after her, "Madam Pomfrey, what is the blanket made from?"

She laughs. "You didn't recognise it?" She teases. "I shouldn't worry about that, I wouldn't expect you to. It's a mixture of Peruvian Puffskein fur and Acromantula silk."

Now it's Hermione's turn to laugh, "And here I felt sure it _wouldn't_ be something Hagrid might raise." 

"That sounds almost right. I could see our Hagrid raising Acromantulas." 

"Oh, he's not just _capable_ , he _has_ done," Hermione informs her. "I don't suppose the Puffskeins were of a fanged variety?" 

"Not unless they were in violation of the Ban on Experimental Breeding," Poppy replies with a smile, thinking that probably wouldn't stop Hagrid either. He's always been frightfully curious and not easily put off. "It isn't a very widespread blend, but it _is_ incredibly soft, and I find it conducive to restful sleep and nice dreams." 

Hermione realises with a start, "It's yours, isn't it? This doesn't belong to the Infirmary..."

The Matron gives another of those one-sided shrugs and just answers, "You looked like you could use the rest," and bustles off.

The young witch's "Thank you!" floats out after her, and the Mediwitch smiles to herself in satisfaction as she enters her office. 

Hermione retreats to the main room and has Polly fetch her books, toiletries and some clothes from the tower. Even with options, she reaches for the burgundy top Madam Pomfrey made for her yesterday. It looks very nice on her, and silly as that might sound, it boosts her confidence. She has a feeling she'll be needing it today. 

Suitably armoured to face the day, or so she hopes, she grabs the pile of textbooks and returns to the Potion Master's side, noticing she really does tend to wrap herself in the blanket whenever it's in reach. Her smile is almost as soft as the blanket as she does.

* * *

  


Hermione makes good progress with her revisions until she hears Madam Pomfrey call loudly, "Miss Lovegood, where do you think you're going?" 

She now knows the rules for this game, and smirks as she slips back into her bed behind the cover of the screen. 

Luna drifts in as only Luna can. Her blouse shows the influence of her trip to India this past summer; somehow, it suits her. Last weekend it was fuchsia, today it's a vibrant medium blue that makes her eyes shine. Parvati had been displeased when Luna started wearing the ethnic clothing, apparently feeling Luna was poaching on her terrain from what Hermione gathered of her roommate's frequent complaints to Lavender. Padma had been far more supportive, and had even gone so far as to help her housemate drape her sari on occasion. That was probably a good thing, because Luna had managed some heretofore unseen methods of draping when left to her own devices, an impressive feat considering the number of _known_ variations. 

Her accessories, though, remain typically Luna; they couldn't become any more exotic if she tried. Currently she seems to be wearing a ring made of a Brussels sprout and a single beetle wing earring. Ah, and a fascinator consisting of a carrot top. Why not? Hermione resolves not to ask. 

"Harry says 'hi'," Luna almost sighs as she takes a seat next to Hermione on the bed, bouncing slightly on the mattress. "He's sorry he couldn't come, but he's got Quidditch practice," she further lilts, which Hermione interprets correctly to mean he didn't want to stop by after their misunderstanding yesterday. "But he sent this," and the blonde pulls a pot of black currant preserves from under her robes. Also correctly, Hermione reads that as an attempted peace offering. She smiles, she can't stay mad at him long anyway.

"It was nice of him, wasn't it?" Luna points to the preserves. "I thought you might like these to go with it, though." A napkin filled with more baps joins the jam on the stand next to Hermione's bed. "I think it would be pretty messy without them." She tilts her head a bit to the side as she thinks about it. "Or you could transfigure a spoon, but then _that_ would probably still be too sweet."

Hermione assumes the Quidditch excuse is meant to explain Ron and Ginny's continued absences as well. They were evidently so lazy, that they hadn't even made the effort to establish an excuse with Luna. Or maybe it wasn't so much laziness as they thought Hermione wasn't even worth the effort, she thinks with annoyance. Recalling Harry's phrasing yesterday, _Harry_ was the one who had put forward the excuse. There was no message from _Ron_. 

She's probably correct in her assessment of Ron; with Ginny things are a good deal more complicated. As irritating as Harry's fence-sitting can become, Hermione frequently _doesn't_ , and that can be every bit as bad or worse. Hermione is quite likely to give someone her opinion, whether it's solicited or not. And there can be no doubt, first and foremost, Hermione is _Harry's_ friend. On occasion, that's proven difficult for Ginny. Particularly now that she and Harry are no longer a couple. 

Luna starts trying to entertain Hermione with tales from last summer's trip. Hermione has trouble focusing on what she's saying. In part, it's because the Gryffindor just has a lot on her mind. But it doesn't help that Hermione also doesn't believe in the creatures the Lovegoods were looking for. And it's more than a little problematic for her that the stories of Luna's happy adventures with her father are a stark and uncomfortable contrast to the reports of _Muggle hunting_ Hermione had been following while they were apparently larking about. Not for the first time, Hermione finds herself feeling she and Luna inhabit vastly different realities. 

It's nice, though, that Luna makes the effort to reach out from wherever it is her reality is. She may be the dottiest person Hermione will ever meet, but she's also one of the kindest and most loyal.

* * *

  


Albus stops by Sunday morning after breakfast to check on two of his current projects in the Infirmary. When he sees Miss Lovegood speaking to Miss Granger, he simply smiles kindly and nods to the witch and then changes course, nipping in to the Matron's office instead. 

Fortunately, Poppy is seated at her desk today, and he needn't search for her. In his most concerned manner, he asks her about her two patients, listens carefully to Severus' prognosis, and discusses his treatment and potions regimen with her. He even has some helpful suggestions. His one hundred and sixteen years of experience have given him useful insights, it would seem. 

He requests, quite reasonably, that when Severus should be about to wake, she be so kind as to send for him. And if she wouldn't mind, would she also keep the other patient distracted? He's quite sure it's for the best if _he's_ the one to break the plan for bonding them to the man. 

Poppy certainly isn't about to disagree. Wild thestrals...

* * *

  


Luna starts fishing about in her bag, the carrot greens in her hair bobbing furiously as she does. Hermione worries for a moment she'll pull out a Gurdyroot or some other smelly thing, and is pleasantly surprised when she withdraws a bunch of scrolls instead. Those seem inoffensive enough. With Luna, one never knows. She unrolls the scrolls to reveal a series of animated charcoal drawings, _incredibly_ good, of even more creatures Hermione doubts exist. That will probably also explain why Luna is carrying around _sketches_ instead of pictures. 

When Luna takes a break from her explanations of the various beasts, Hermione asks her if she had drawn the pictures. Luna says she had, explaining how it helped to be able to show people what exactly they were looking for. Not that they had achieved any _results_ for their efforts, but at least that hadn't been down to communication issues. 

"When did you learn to draw like this?"

"I started two years ago with Professor Grubbly-Plank. She had us sketching Nifflers."

"We sketched Bowtruckles," Hermione absently corrects, looking through the drawings, seriously impressed.

"In _your_ year, maybe. _We_ drew Nifflers," Luna corrects her gently in return. "I realised then how helpful that could be for a magizoologist, and decided to learn."

"These are excellent, Luna. You're very good." It strikes her that unlike the rest of them, and for all they, frankly, tend to look down on Luna a bit for her crazy beliefs, _she_ has a clear idea of what she likes doing and what it entails, and is making progress to that end. It's disconcerting to say the least to think _Luna_ may be the most _together_ of their friends. 

Neville is probably a close second with his pursuit of Herbology. Harry, it occurs to her with surprise, is probably third with his desire to become an Auror. Ron, she's always suspected, had followed along for lack of his own personal goals, and didn't seem to realise what the job entailed. And she and Ginny are apparently planless at the rear. There's yet _another_ paradigm shift. 

The blonde rises to leave and begins to pack up her things. Nodding at the small pile of folded clothing on the little table next to the baps, she surprises Hermione by saying, "You might want to change. I think he'll prefer the green."

Hermione just sits there blinking dumbly for a moment. She _could_ be talking about Harry, after all, it was the article in the 'Quibbler' that had started that rumour. It doesn't help that Hermione has no idea what she said before that; given Luna, it's as likely to have been nothing. 

"I wore that yesterday," Hermione puts her off. 

Luna just lifts her wand and cleans it for her, "There you go then, but you could have done that yourself. Trust me, wear the green. Feel better soon, Hermione. I'll see you tomorrow." And with that she gives her a hug and then skips off in a haze of Indian silk, school robes, flying blonde hair and carrot greens. 

No one is quite like Luna. 

Hermione couldn't explain it if she tried, but the next thing she knows, she's changing her top. Who knows, maybe the Nargles would have taken it otherwise. 

Grabbing a bap and the preserves, she returns to the back room, her books, her studying and her Professor, where she stays learning quite happily until Madam Pomfrey calls her into her office two hours later to discuss the potions she'd like her to take. Hermione quickly Banishes the books to the cupboard in the corner and hurries off to speak with her. It wouldn't do to keep the Matron waiting.

* * *

  


Albus is seated once again to the right of Severus' bed in Poppy's chair when, just as the Matron had promised, the man begins to come to. His eyes are having more than a little trouble focusing, yet he reaches for Albus' robes, clutching them earnestly, and despite his state manages to choke out a hoarse, "Miss Granger?"

Albus couldn't be more thrilled. 

He begins a rush of what might even be reassuring words about said witch's condition, it's hard to recall, she's something resembling fine, shaken, but mostly fine, and how they're quite certain they have _Severus_ , and him alone, wonder of wonders, when does _that_ ever happen, to thank for the fact that she's currently in _any_ shape at all, thank you ever so, and somewhere towards the end of it, did he even pause to breathe, he waxes nearly lyrical about what a magnificent effort it was, truly heroic...

"Praise, Albus? What distasteful thing do you want me to do next?" Severus interrupts the litany. 

At which point Albus smoothly changes the tune, and possibly orchestra and venue as well, and weaves in something about how he'd like for Severus to bond with the witch to continue to keep her safe. 

_Oof._

Or at least that's how Severus will recall it. It was all rather overwhelming.

  



	20. 11 09a Sunday - Severus Wakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Severus, Albus_
> 
> Albus breaks his idea to Severus...

_Just as Poppy had promised, Severus begins to come to. He reaches for Albus' robes, clutching them earnestly, and despite his state manages to choke out a hoarse, "Miss Granger?"_

_Albus couldn't be more thrilled._

_He begins in a rush of what might even be reassuring words about said witch's condition, she's shaken, but mostly fine, and waxes nearly lyrical about what a magnificent effort the rescue was, truly heroic..._

_"Praise, Albus? What distasteful thing do you want me to do next?" Severus interrupts the litany._

_At which point Albus smoothly changes the tune, and possibly orchestra and venue as well, and weaves in something about how he'd like for Severus to bond with the witch to continue to keep her safe._

Oof. 

_Or at least that's how Severus will recall it. It was all rather overwhelming._

He's having extreme difficulty parsing _any_ of it.

He tries again. "She's alright?" 

"Yes, Severus. Thanks to you." Severus thinks he disagrees, but he can't seem to remember the facts of the matter quite yet. It will come back to him, he's sure. Albus, for his part, is pleased with the man's priorities. 

"And you want _what_ from me?" He rasps.

Albus hands the poor man a glass of water to help him recover, or at least his voice, as he explains. "Severus, I fear the threat is very real." Severus snorts softly at that. If it _weren't_ , _he_ wouldn't be _lying_ here; _that_ much he remembers. "I would like you to bond the young woman under a Fidelity Vow. To keep her safe. To keep both of you safe." 

Albus _wants_. Albus _always_ wants. Albus usually _gets_ , the blackguard. Severus fights to scrape together what he knows of 'bonding'. It seems to be a losing battle at present. No, he's failing on all fronts. Coming up quite empty. Hasn't a clue. Woman... Women aren't problematic... That may or may not be accurate, but 'woman' wasn't the worrisome part. He scans that sentence for any other words he recognises, and then alights on one that alarms him. Greatly.

"Bloody hell. You mean for me to never have sex again." Severus is feeling a bit sluggish and thick, but _that_ thought wormed its way into his addled brain. He's vaguely ashamed that _this_ was the thing he chose to focus on, and even more so that he apparently was fool enough to voice it, but in his defence, he's only just regained consciousness. Fortunately he's still in enough of a haze that he doesn't give himself too much grief for the thoughts. Instead, he's currently trying to remember when the last time was that he'd had a bit of the old 'how's your father', and then shudders to think _that_ would have been his last go. Oh, for fuck's sake. 

Quite, in fact.

"Perhaps," Albus seems to assent. Or dissemble. It's frequently hard to tell with him. Particularly when one isn't exactly in command of one's faculties. Severus has difficulty for a moment just remembering the question he must have posed. Fucking hell. 

He struggles to think this through. "Or shall I hold out hope she doesn't survive?" This is absurd. Given he'd only just risked his life to get her _out_ of harm's way, that _can't_ be his answer.

"Probably not. We may need to establish that you would be severely injured were she to fall." Oddly, that doesn't prove the least bit comforting.

"I beg your pardon?" He's blinking a mite nervously, and looks for all the world rather like a young, startled bird. Something stork-like, maybe. But then that's uncharitable, Albus muses, and partially the result of the poor sod's pallor. Hardly unexpected after being comatose for almost two days. Albus chides himself for the slight, unvoiced though it was. The man truly deserves better from him.

"So there would be no temptation on the part of certain parties to eliminate her," he explains patiently, but the dark wizard still doesn't find it all that reassuring. 

"Or to ensure that there is even _more_. Albus..." He sounds very worried, and Albus is pleased to note Severus' concern has shifted to the young woman's welfare, and not his own. Yes, this has promise.

"Calm yourself, Severus. We have time to think about that in more detail once you've come to yourself. Why don't you tell me about Friday night?" 

"The events at the Manor or here?" 

"Both, if you've the strength for it." 

"I'll find it." Doing so appears to be quite the exertion. "The Manor was... wretched. Beyond wretched. I..." He swallows and tries again. The strain is visible in his face, and Albus feels vindicated in his plans for the man. "They had a number of Muggles prisoner. I doubt they survived the night. If they did, they'll wish they hadn't." He sounds hollow. "There was nothing I could do. It was enough to not be forced to... participate." 

"Severus, you should know by now, you can't save them all." 

" _All_ , Albus? I couldn't save a _one_." 

"You saved Miss Granger." 

"I doubt the threat was remotely the same." 

"You did what you could. Give yourself credit for that." 

"And yet you're telling me it wasn't enough. Or why suggest a bonding? And why _me_?" Strangely, this whole plot isn't coming as quite the shock it probably should have been, perhaps he's just come to expect the worst. 

"Patience, Severus. In time." There's a slight pause, and then, "You made use of a house elf." It's a statement and not a question. But if he had all the facts, they shouldn't even be discussing it. Severus wonders if the point is simply to rebuke him. It's feeling like that kind of day, and he's only been awake for mere minutes of it. He's learnt to trust his instincts. "To transport students within the castle," Albus further prompts, as though Severus didn't know full well what he meant.

"The boys were Confunded, Albus. It _won't_ be a problem. They have retained no information from the encounter to share. There's no risk whatsoever there. And the Apparition itself occurred within a Notice-Me-Not and Muffliato. None of the portraits or even anyone conceivably lurking would have been able to see or hear a thing."

"Except for the boys failing to reappear from the Notice-Me-Not as you did..." 

"They could have _continued_ to be under a Notice-Me-Not, or I could have Disillusioned them. Rumour has it I am quite proficient at _both_ spells." His eyebrow arches in that provocative way of his, and for the first time Albus feels like Severus is truly going to recover. " _That's_ not the problem. The _problem_ , if you wish to concern yourself about something, was I determined that Sunny was able to both hear _and_ find me within both of those spells. _Neither_ approach will help as a defensive tactic if _they_ ever think to weaponise the elves." 

"Should they ever do so, we have very grave problems indeed," Albus agrees sombrely. "What made you think to try it?"

Reluctantly, Severus admits, "I _wasn't_ thinking and simply called for him, having forgotten it shouldn't work." His lips are drawn, and he hastens to add, "But I _wasn't_ careless, Albus. I even carried Miss Granger up here to avoid another instance of elf magic, especially as she was neither Confunded nor Obliviated. I was extremely _cautious_."

" _Carried_ , Severus?" Albus prods in that irksome way of his that gets under Severus' skin. 

"She couldn't walk, and I couldn't leave her there," he snaps in reply. 

"If you say so, Severus." 

"What was I supposed to do, Albus? Honestly? Just leave her there? Traumatised and rendered mute? Or were you expecting non-verbal magic in her state? With _that_ potion coursing through her system? She could neither defend herself nor summon help. 

"Should I have sent her ahead with Sunny? And then what, Confund her after everything else she'd been through? She couldn't have even called for Poppy or explained what happened with the Muffliato, even less so with a Confundus. 

"No," he sounds quite positive, "I had no other choice." 

"You are a good man, Severus, despite what you would have people believe." All that gets him is a silent glare. To be fair, if he weren't trying to convince the younger man to take part in a very questionable scheme, the praise may have seemed more credible. As it is, Severus thinks he's being softened up. He is, but the statement is no less true. 

"Why don't you tell me about the Manor first," Albus spurs him on, sensing they're getting nowhere with kind words. And so he does. In full, gory detail for once. Albus encourages Severus to keep talking, as he needs to accurately gauge how bad things have become, and how desperate the man lying before him might be.

It's bad. 

They both feel ill by the time the account's finished, and then there's still the report of the boys' attack to cover, as well as all the information Severus was able to glean in the process through the Legilimency.

It was rather a lot. 

Miss Granger's memories of Friday evening had given the Headmaster a good idea of what to expect, but without the benefit of Severus' Legilimency, she had gotten a few things wrong. As she wasn't privy to the boys' thoughts, she had underestimated the threat Mr. Zabini represents while seriously overestimating Mr. Goyle's. In all fairness, that had corresponded with Severus' expectations as well. 

Her long-standing antipathy towards Mr. Goyle will have played a critical role. Subconsciously, their appearances and social skills will also have made a difference, although the witch is less susceptible towards that influence than most. Likewise, she won't have been clear on the motivations for Severus' Obliviations, to what extent it was cover for his Legilimency, but just how much he had sought to protect her in the process. 

Albus takes that as another ray of hope for his plans.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:**  
>  I hope those of you who celebrated Thanksgiving had nice times with friends and family. (We haven't got that here, but oddly we have the sales.) 
> 
> In the spirit of that holiday, I'd like to thank everyone for reading, the kudos, the bookmarks, and most especially for the comments. You're lovely, and it's greatly appreciated.


	21. 11 09b Sunday - The Dark Roster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Severus, Albus_
> 
> Severus briefs Albus on the Death Eaters...

The boys' memories, related through the filter of Severus' experience, create a surprisingly detailed insight into the characters involved. People almost always underestimate children, what they observe and understand. These memories provide insights that Albus hopes to exploit in the months to come. At the least, they serve up a more comprehensive view of their enemies, as the individuals involved were far more likely to let their masks, proverbial and literal, fall in the presence of their children than with Severus. 

As previously suspected, Crabbe's father is _utterly_ evil, he's devoid of any and all redeeming qualities; the scion's somewhat surprisingly _not_ very much better by this point. Any hopes they had for him are pointless. Vincent believes the party doctrine completely and is willing to take it to almost any extreme. He's a lost cause. 

The memories bear out, Macnair is every bit as dangerous as Severus had believed, possibly more so for not having many of the more common vices. He lives to cause pain; he _revels_ in it. As long as he draws breath and is free to act, people will suffer. It's a certainty.

Mulciber is only slightly better, although his tastes are largely more... prosaic. For the most part, anyway. There _was_ his strange obsession with feet... At least he tended to leave them... attached. Merlin's hairy ballsack.

The Lestranges are corrosive influences to the extreme, their continued presence at the Manor bodes ill for Draco and the other Malfoys. And that's not even considering the maddest Lestrange of all, Bellatrix. That... _woman_ , and the term is used in place of pejoratives Severus eschews, may be the worst of the lot, saving the Dark Lord himself. 

Greyback is a close third. There seems to be a good deal of interest in how to make better use of his abilities beyond strong-arming, enforcing and instilling fear. That promises to be a _very_ lethal threat should they ever find mutually agreeable terms. Thus far only the dissentious natures had kept him from being utilised effectively. Although those are unlikely to improve, at some point, _someone_ is sure to realise the opportunity they're wasting and insist on changes. 

Rookwood is extremely dangerous for his cunning and the levelheaded threat he represents. He's easily worth any three of the others. But as he lacks the insanity, degeneracy and depravation of Bellatrix, Fenrir or Macnair, _his_ threat is predominantly tactical. Fewer people will die at present for his influence, but the success or failure of the war effort is a whole different matter.

Dolohov, the Carrows, Travers and Selwyn are more than fond of a spot of torture. People will undoubtedly die at the ends of their wands, but they'll be made to suffer first. Dolohov was the most competent and deadly of the lot. His arrogance might be a weakness, but it's not entirely unjustified; he'd beaten Moody in one-on-one combat in the past. With the Carrows there is the question if the abuse will remain at 'just' torture. 

Avery, Rowle, Scabior... Foot soldiers. Easily ignored or sorted when the time comes. Rowle has been on the outs since he accidentally killed Gibbon in the skirmish that injured Tonks last summer. It shouldn't be overlooked, however, that he had cast an Avada with the intent to kill a member of the Order. Scabior has sexually deviant tendencies for which he had already served time in Azkaban in the past.

Yaxley has kept his nose mostly clean. He's a diehard pure-blood supremacist, and capable of great cruelty, but it pails in comparison to his associates. The boys hadn't much to add on his account except for witnessing complaints from the others about how Corban had escaped persecution last summer. Oh, and that he apparently deeply resented Snape's 'success' in acquiring information on Potter's relocation from Little Whinging last July. He had so far managed to hide that in Severus' presence. Albus smiles at that; Severus just scoffs. 

Yaxley was present when Tonks was injured, but as he had been Stupefied early in the exchange and hadn't _done_ anything one way or another, he hadn't been punished and still has a fair amount of influence at the Ministry. The boys' thoughts reveal _that_ is a source of... _irritation_ to some of his colleagues. He retains control via Imperius over Thicknesse, which will most likely be a problem in the future, but if it isn't Yaxley, it will simply be someone else. Nevertheless, Severus is certain, for the Death Eaters, Yaxley's function currently is much the same as Severus' for the Order.

For all the bad news, there are some rays of light. Some shake ups to the order of things. 

Perhaps it's not too surprising when one considers their home is effectively _occupied_ , and to what purpose, but the Malfoys may not be as loyal anymore. Surely their blood prejudice had been a real thing, but the depravity regularly occurring within their walls... It hardly suits such... genteel natures. Severus struggles to suppress a moment of Schadenfreude when he thinks it serves Lucius right for sucking him into this mire. But at this point the aristocratic trio is mostly just struggling to survive. The fact of the matter is _that_ might represent a possible 'in' at some point in the future. Potential assets.

Goyle's family are also not true believers. Goyle Sr. is an unmitigated _idiot_ to have said some of the things he has in the presence of the boy. If the Dark Lord ever gets his hands on him and takes the most cursory look into his thoughts, the entire family is as good as dead. The blighter can't Occlude to literally save their lives. 

Albus senses that Severus would like to take some, _any_ action there. To somehow protect these Slytherins who aren't loyal Death Eaters, as though they were somehow worthy of the effort for that fact alone. He might even be right, considering the circumstances and the opposition they faced, not that it will change anything.

"We can't, Severus. You can't save them all." 

"Goyle Sr. is almost certainly not clever enough to have said those things to lay a trap or plant an alibi, Albus. He actually _believes_ what he said, I'd guarantee it. He doesn't deserve to hang with the rest."

"But still, Severus. Even still. We can't risk it and teach the boy to Occlude; there's no good reason to do so. How would you explain it? It would just make him, _and_ you, bigger targets. And I know Gregory's work, my dear boy. There's virtually no chance you could teach him to Occlude at all, and definitely not well enough to make a difference."

Unsatisfied, Severus nevertheless desists and continues his report. Zabini's mother is opportunistic. Not a believer, as such, but a predator of the first water. And Nott needs to be kept away from his family's, his father's, influence. At all costs. 

"Here again, Severus, what would you have us do? And is it even warranted? I know Mr. Nott tried to discourage the other boys from taking things further, but it isn't as though he ran for help."

"For _help_ , Albus? To whom?? _I_ wasn't there! And they _knew_ it. I was serving _your_ purposes and being _Crucioed_ and _cut to shreds_ at the feet of my other 'master'.

"Should he have come to _you_?" Severus finds the whole idea infuriating. "The Headmaster who arbitrarily awards points to his own House to guarantee their win? _That's_ how he knows you, Albus. Not one of them has ever seen you as _fair_. Time and again you've snatched victory from their hands. You've singlehandedly taught them that consistent hard work and adherence to the rules is ultimately not rewarded. And he would have told you, what, that the Muggle-born princess of Gryffindor was in danger? That would have gone well. 

"He had no one to turn to and he assessed the situation accurately. He never would have made it out of that room had he tried. Zabini had already considered the possibility Nott might bolt and was ready and waiting with a Confundus; Crabbe had planned to use a Stupefy if it came to that, and Obliviate him later. Nott would have been of no use in either instance. His best bet for helping was doing _precisely_ what he did. Staying there and trying to talk sense into the others."

"Still, that hardly seems all that praiseworthy," Albus objects. 

Severus can't help thinking were his name 'Weasley' or 'Potter', instead of 'Nott', _that_ action would have won them the bleeding House Cup. He immediately feels guilty for it, because the actions of all the others of course justify any and all punishments for quite some time to come. The _last_ thing they deserve is the Cup, and yet he can't help feeling Theo is getting short shrift.

"Albus, if _all_ he did was delay them just a little so that things had progressed no further before I arrived, _that_ in itself is worthy of praise and more. When Longbottom stood up to his friends _you_ praised him in front of the entire school."

"Neville needs a bit of bolstering."

"More than a _bit_ , I'd say, and it's still unlikely to do any good," Severus gives him a pointed look. "But if you think _he_ has it bad, just what do you think _Theo_ is facing at home? Or _Draco_..."

" _What of_ Mr. Malfoy? What was your read on him? He _did_ give her that potion."

"Merlin. Draco's a mess," Severus sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, considering how to explain him. "The potion says a lot about him, though. It wasn't his, wasn't planned, and wouldn't have been his choice to use, except that it was to hand."

"And yet he administered it..."

"It's stupid, utterly stupid, but his driving motivation for that was to stop her _cries_. In _that much_ , it was a success. He couldn't listen to the sound of her screams. _That_ inability, Albus, will probably be the death of him the next time he's told to use the Cruciatus at the Manor. Possibly mine as well, if we aren't careful. But it's one thing for him to turn his wand on Rowle, another completely on a classmate. He's too soft to survive."

"His intentions?"

"He actually thought they'd give her the potion, dump the blood and leave her for Minerva and her Gryffindors to find. He's an idiot. A fool. _And_ a danger. Given that he doesn't seem sure if he wanted to Obliviate her after the fact, it's unclear he even wanted her _discomfort_ , as bizarre as it seems. 

"It was meant to be humiliating, which it no doubt was, and to enrage Potter and Weasley, which it certainly would have." With a sinking feeling, he thinks to ask, "Or _has_ it done? She _did_ speak to you first, didn't she?" The concern is clear in his tone. 

It hadn't occurred to him until now. But somehow the Infirmary seems too quiet and Albus too calm for her to have revealed the facts of Friday to her friends. If she had, he'd bargain on all hell to have broken loose while he was... incapacitated. There should be all out warfare between the Houses in that case. He'd have expected escalation by now, evidenced by several more people, seriously injured, in the main room and their visitors, but he can't hear a thing from it. And he can't imagine Albus would be sat here leisurely chatting with him about Death Eaters and bonds were that the case. 

"She did, yes. Thank you for that. You were right that I would wish to contain this. She hasn't even spoken to Minerva."

Seeking to confirm his fears, he asks, "You don't mean to punish them for this?" 

"How could I now that most of them don't even remember it?" Albus can't help tormenting him a little. But as Malfoy both remembers _and_ initiated the attack, it isn't particularly believable, and he quickly drops the ruse. "No, you were absolutely correct in your assessment. It would not be in our interests to do so."

Severus greets that reply with all the anger and frustration he anticipated he'd feel. He hates that _this_ is considered a suitable plan of action. _He's_ the Slytherin after all, the pragmatist, the spy and the man for the long game, and even _he_ doesn't think allowing such behavior in the school is a defensible manoeuvre. 

Albus recognises the signs of conflict in the man and having seen his promise to the young witch in her memories decides to make a concession. "But you have my blessings to deal with them, unofficially, as you see fit. Have at it."

The answering curl to Severus' lip could best be described as malicious. Albus doesn't envy the boys. Still, it's no worse than they deserve. If maintaining Severus' cover permitted it, and skirting those damn Vows safely allowed for it, he'd have them expelled and not be sanctioning whatever the Potions Master has in mind. Although... there's a good chance this may become a much harsher punishment yet, knowing the man. It should prove decidedly interesting to watch. 

He recalls Severus to their previous topic, "The verdict on Mr. Malfoy?"

"As the potion seems to have been _entirely_ Crabbe's idea, it's conceivable there's still hope for Draco." 

Albus arches his brow now, in challenging mimicry of one of Severus' favourite gestures, and Severus reluctantly admits, "But he _didn't_ have Nott's fortitude to object, and I wouldn't hold out much hope that things weren't about to end very badly had I not intervened in a timely manner. 

"Draco may have had no further intent _at that time_ , but I wouldn't swear that wouldn't have changed once the potion took effect and Crabbe began to... act. More importantly, Draco couldn't swear to it either. It's an unknown. He hadn't _considered_ it yet, let alone decided. But the pack dynamic is a most unfortunate one. Each abdicates responsibility for their actions in the mob." 

Albus nods in complete agreement. "I don't believe we can afford to worry about saving Mr. Malfoy. And as with the others, there's the question of how that could even be managed." There's a certain irony in that. Severus chooses not to point it out in light of the boy's actions the other night; he's still _that_ affected by them. He's also not altogether certain Albus even noticed the inconsistency in his position. 

Severus finds the final bit of news the most terrifying, not that it should come as any surprise. Several of the boys will be expected... _forced_ to take the Mark over the Christmas holidays, the rest after graduation. There will be no reprieve. 

The thought makes him nauseous. It's a good thing he hasn't eaten in days.

For Merlin's sake, three out of five of the boys' fathers had spent the last year in Azkaban. A fourth father was still nevertheless a Death Eater, and the fifth boy escaped a similar burden probably only because he was essentially fatherless. Anyone who thinks that doesn't leave its mark on the children is sadly mistaken. He certainly doesn't want them to end in Azkaban, too. 

Albus seems to take it all in his stride. That just makes Severus' stomach turn more. Things haven't changed a whit in twenty years. Albus is _still_ not helping the young snakes. And Severus... Well, he _can't_. _His_ role is to stand idly by, watching them get turned into Death Eaters and if the Order wins, the lot of his students will land in Azkaban. They'll have no lives worth the mention either way. Doomed, no matter what happens. 

Just thinking about it makes him feel as helpless as he ever has.  


  



	22. 11 09c Sunday - Managing Severus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Severus, Albus_

_Just thinking about it makes him feel as helpless as he ever has._

Taking no prisoners, Albus pounces on Severus' weakened state. "We should speak of the bonding," he breaks it to him almost gently, but that's simply the deceptively soft touch of the velvet glove he wears on his ruthlessly iron fist. It may be desiccated, but it's no less strong for it. Having decided _this_ is what needs to happen, he won't relent until it _does_. 

Severus doesn't stand a chance.

In broad terms, Albus explains what he would like Severus to do and his reasons for the Fidelity Vow. He's tackling this in stages. The Potions Professor isn't some sixth year he can easily bowl over. This will require finesse and logic. 

"I fear she's at great risk otherwise," he winds up, shaking his head regretfully and sounding almost heartbroken as he says it. It's a masterful performance, slightly wasted on his choice of a Slytherin for an audience, and a vaguely groggy one at that. "This should provide her with protection that is sadly needed, both at school and _certainly_ elsewhere."

After Severus' horrific report, he's in no position to argue with the _truth_ of the threat, nor has he any inclination, but the _solution_... Merlin. _That_ leaves _much_ to be desired. 

Beyond the thoroughly distasteful idea of bonding _anyone_ , let alone a _student_ , and worse yet a close friend of Potter's and a model Gryffindor at that... It's frankly proving hard to think to muster any _more_ objections; those were already so _overwhelming_. Nevertheless, the idea is absolutely rubbish, and he means to make that clear.

"And you _honestly_ believe this wouldn't place her even more at risk? The Dark Lord would never stand for it, not to mention the Inner Circle. She wouldn't last a week, and it wouldn't be... pleasant."

"No, of course not, Severus, what are you thinking? She'd have to take a Loyalty Vow, naturally, or they'd never permit it." Severus has a brief, absurd mental image of a Loyalty Vow somehow managing to have her agreeing to never darken the door to his classroom again. No more frantically waving hands... It pulls a small huff of laughter from him that Albus completely misreads. 

"I still highly doubt they'd allow it," Severus mutters in response to the Headmaster's small smile. He wonders fleetingly why everyone else's approval is apparently more relevant than his own in this affair.

"You'll argue that you had to do this to prove _your_ loyalty to the _Order_. I'm growing nervous and flighty in my dotage. I panicked after the events of Friday and _insisted_ upon this as well as immediate action in an impulsive and thoroughly ill considered response to the attack." Severus couldn't agree with that assessment more, but keeps that to himself. "Further, that you'll have to keep her safe to continue to do so. And that as she can in no way betray your interests, she poses no threat."

Severus can't help thinking that none of the Muggles from Friday had posed any threat, and that most certainly hadn't been sufficient to keep them from harm and ultimately death.

"My point is no less valid, Albus. It will only call more unwanted attention to her. Even worse, would she even be safe from the Order?"

"My dear boy, the Order knows where you stand." Albus manages to sound slightly scandalised at the suggestion.

Severus would argue the veracity of that in a heartbeat, but it doesn't matter. "For how long?" He simply asks the older man with a pointed look at his arm. 

"Both of you need to _last_ that long for it to matter, Severus, and right now the prognosis isn't good." It's a little waspish for his standards; Albus is slipping. He pulls himself together. " _You're_ at risk without this. You understand _exactly_ the protection a Fidelity Vow would provide you. Don't pretend otherwise."

Severus has the good sense not to even _try_ to argue that. Albus is correct, the only question is if the benefits outweigh the drawbacks. As yet, Severus is _far_ from convinced.

"And why wouldn't the Death Eaters just eliminate her if that were their goal? The Vow shouldn't be any kind of impediment, merely more _incentive_ for her murder. At the latest, when you're... no longer with us, and I am no longer... proving my loyalty to you, her life would be forfeit, and I'd have no good excuse to interfere. 

"In fact," he adds in a flash of completely probable insight, "you can rely on them demanding her death at the point of _my_ wand. And _how_ should I respond then? How would I justify my inaction, and how would _that_ affect our plans?"

"I was quite serious before, Severus. We shall have to convince them there's a very real possibility that you'll be seriously... _damaged_ if anything happens to her."

"Is that _true_?" He's appalled. This perfectly _horrible_ idea is improbably becoming _worse_ by the moment. He wouldn't have thought it possible.

"There are always _possibilities_ , my boy. Who's to say it isn't?" He smiles beneficently, but Severus feels his blood run cold. There's something so incredibly wrong about all of it... "Either way, you'll have to tell her there is for it to be more convincing." 

Severus thinks about it some more and hits upon yet another concerning aspect. "And _how_ exactly would that be likely to happen? That's hardly the result of a _Fidelity_ Vow." There's a very bad feeling in the pit of his stomach, and the fine hairs on the back of his neck have risen in an instinctive response to a threat. 

"You'd need to take a Protection Vow for this to work." 

"Albus! That's essentially a _Geas_!" He's utterly stunned. He has _no_ words for this... No... No, he has _many_ words for this, all of them bad, and none of them likely to be of much use. "Are Unbreakable Vows not _enough_ for you anymore?" 

"Now now, Severus. I hardly want you _dead_." 

"No, only _enslaved_. Why do we need it?" He practically whines. 

Albus bites back a smile. There's no point in further antagonising the man. Getting him to accede to his request is more than problematic enough as it is. "To convince them to leave her alone, of course. You can't believe they would otherwise." 

"Couldn't we just forgo the Vow and _claim_ it had been done?" 

"Severus, it's just one more thing you'd have to simulate. If the resulting action _needs_ to be the same in any event, it's easier if you needn't consider it. If it's _automatic_. Surely you see the sense in that? We can't have you caught in a lie for something so inconsequential." 

"But you _could_ have me turned into little more than a _puppet_ for something 'so inconsequential'?" 

"Severus, just two days ago you risked your life for her. That can't be of no consequence to you." 

"That was _your_ phrase, Albus, _your_ words. I merely borrowed them. And I _chose_ to come to her aid. I wasn't _forced_ by some Geas. That's an entirely different matter." 

When Albus doesn't respond, he continues almost petulantly, "I'm also unconvinced I risked my life. I _survived_."

"The _fact_ you survived doesn't make it a _given_ under the circumstances. It was a close call, my boy." 

"Then I seem to have made the _right_ one." He thinks about it some more. "A Protection Vow doesn't just come into effect when her life is threatened." 

"That's correct, but you're _both_ intelligent people, Severus. I'm sure you two could rise to the challenge and work something out. I feel strongly that the benefits of automating the response outweigh the drawbacks of broadening the triggering mechanisms." 

"Well, as long as _you_ feel strongly about it." He doesn't know where to start. The idea is mad. _None_ of it is good. He doesn't understand why he can't make the man see sense.

The silence stretches and the Headmaster seeks to reassure the withdrawn man in the bed next to him. "This should buy you good will in both camps," Albus seems confident. 

Severus is no more convinced by that argument than any of the others. "And ill will in both camps, ta." 

"The Loyalty Vow will give you someone to speak to." 

The huff of laughter is a good deal more forceful this time. "Because I'm so _social_? A _student_? And a bosom friend of _Potter's_ at that?" 

"Beggars... Needs must, Severus. Chin up. And a lifetime without sex is a luxury if there was no lifetime to speak of before." Severus' mortification makes it clear _that's_ not the line to push. Albus regroups. "This should make us stronger, you'll be better able to communicate between camps." 

"I've never had problems communicating." 

"And when the Order no longer knows where you stand, will that still be true?

"Whether or not I'm _believed_ is another issue altogether, and _highly_ unlikely to be addressed by someone under a _Loyalty_ Vow." He sighs and tries to get some perspective. As Albus' truly bad ideas go, this hardly makes the list.

"There's one other matter we need to consider," there's a flash of doubt in the Headmaster's eyes that now has Severus particularly worried. That he should somehow find whatever _this_ is more of a problem than anything else he had suggested... The feeling in the pit of Severus' stomach grows worse. 

"In light of the Protection Vow, and I'm afraid that really _must_ happen, Severus, rendering this not at all optional... I fear she would need to move in to your chambers."

Severus doesn't answer, he merely sits there. Dumbfounded.

"Before you find yourself banging on the doors to the Gryffindor tower in the middle of the night... Were the protection Geas to demand action, you see." Albus supplies helpfully by way of explanation. "That wouldn't do. Not at all... You need to have unrestricted access..."

This is all because of Friday. Right now, what Severus wants more than _anything_ else is to see Draco _drawn and quartered_. He pauses to mull over if the Unbreakable Vow will allow for it. Perhaps not _that_ , exactly, but he thinks he sees a way around it. As long as it's for the boy's own good... Punitive measures need only be _educational_. _Then_ it should work. Fucking hell.

He revises his opinion of just how bad this idea is. It's climbing up the list quite steadily. 

"Why, certainly," Severus finally agrees almost suavely. "I'll just put her in the box room, shall I?" Neither says anything for a while, and finally Severus snaps, "I haven't _got_ a box room, as you well know."

"No, but you have an office _and_ a study. Highly redundant, I'd say." 

Severus eyes widen as though _that_ were a greater affront than bonding the witch for life. It might be at that, given how he feels about his library. 

"Am I asking too much of you? Really? Be honest, my boy. Tell me, how do you fancy your chances of survival?" Albus strokes his cursed arm demonstratively. They both know what it looks like under the Notice-Me-Not. The wizened man shakes his head sadly, "Neither of us will make it out of this alive, Severus. What sacrifice am I asking beyond a few months of celibacy?" 

"When is this supposed to happen?" He sounds resigned. Beaten, actually, _deadened_ , and Albus thinks he has him. 

"Today, if we can agree on terms." 

"Today!?" A spark of life seems to have returned. How quickly that goes.

"Oh, I apologise, Severus. Am I interfering with your plans?" The amusement in his voice stings. "Were you hoping to have a last go? Head down to the Three Broomsticks for a final pull?" He's practically chuckling, and Severus' face only grows redder. "Hoping to get your leg over? Really, my boy, if you need it that badly, I could send for someone. There are more than enough doxies to be found in Knockturn Alley. I'm sure one could satisfy your..." 

"Enough!" He finds his voice. "There's no need to mock me." The muscles in his jaw tremble from the effort of trying to keep it from visibly clenching, defeating the purpose entirely. 

"You can't be _surprised_ by my reaction, Albus. Did you expect me to _welcome_ this development? Even the condemned man gets a last meal." 

"Do they? Do they really, Severus? Do your Death Eaters provide last meals?" 

Severus goes incredibly quiet and his eyes seem almost lifeless. "They aren't _my_ Death Eaters," he objects, his tone flat, affectless. 

"They _were_ ," Albus responds smoothly, unconcerned by the hurt evident in the man's numb reply. 

"Will you ever stop punishing me?" He demands, all the feeling absent just a moment ago returns in a rush. He sounds _tortured_ ; he's certainly had enough experience to judge. 

"Now now, Severus. This isn't a punishment..." 

"Isn't it?" He snorts. "For not for having Draco under control?" 

"I assure you, Severus, it's _not_ a punishment." 

"It's hardly a _reward_ ," he spits. 

The silence returns, each man sits chasing his own thoughts, neither particularly optimistic. But both are too pragmatic to leave it at that. Finally Severus resumes the negotiations.

"I refuse to consummate the bond." He's thrilled to bits to never have sex again, but that, _that_ was taking things too far.

"I wouldn't dream of asking you to," Albus answers without missing a beat. 

"But asking me not to have sex is perfectly acceptable..." Severus grumbles. Albus says nothing. 

Severus finally remembers something about bonding that's been niggling at the back of his mind this whole time. "And I won't bond my magic." The petulance has returned with interest. 

"I didn't think you would." Albus is quite unperturbed.

"Severus, I _need_ you to do this."

The man is silent for a bit and then spots a ray of hope. "It's not just down to me, Albus."

"No, of course not," Albus agrees, carefully stifling his smile. He's been waiting for Severus to stumble onto this. It was only a matter of time. "But I need you to make this happen if at all possible. If she agrees," Severus' slight smirk gives him away, but Albus pretends not to notice. Much. He merely repeats, "If _she_ agrees, I need _you_ to make it happen. Can I rely on you to do that?"

He has _no_ desire to do this _whatsoever_. He still isn't convinced it won't cause more harm than good, at the very latest when Albus is gone. But he agrees the threats to each of them are real, and that it... _could_ help in the short term. He also believes it's so utterly unlikely she'd ever even consider it, that he chooses to appear... magnanimous. _Compliant_. 

He nods once. It's a jerky motion that betrays just how unwilling he is, but it's all Albus needs. 

"Then why don't we discuss this with her?" He asks, nodding towards the door where Miss Granger has inexplicably appeared, a cup of tea sloshing in hand which she's now trying frantically not to spill as she stares at them both in surprise.

  



	23. 11 09d Sunday - Negotiations Begin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Severus, Albus, Hermione, Poppy_

_"If_ she _agrees, I need_ you _to make it happen. Can I rely on you to do that?"_

_Severus nods once. It's a jerky motion that betrays just how unwilling he is, but it's all Albus needs._

_"Then why don't we discuss this with her?" He asks, nodding towards the door where Miss Granger has inexplicably appeared, a cup of tea sloshing in hand which she's now trying frantically not to spill as she stares at them both in surprise._

 

"Sir! You're awake!" Her eyes are wide, and she's making a valiant effort to keep as much of the tea in the cup as possible. It's a decent attempt, but not quite good enough. However, once she recovers her composure, at least a little, a Tergeo quickly sorts the mess. 

Severus wonders when Albus sent for her. His sleight of withered hand is getting better. And why she dared stop for _tea_ en route... 

On consideration, he decides that's highly unlike her, despite her overtly Gryffindor traits, and deduces the Headmaster had lured her here with a ruse. _'Would you kindly play house elf and fetch me some tea, Miss Granger.' 'Oh,_ gladly _, Sir!_ Anything _to ease the plight of an elf and help the_ greatest _Gryffindor of them all...'_

That makes Severus smirk to himself. And then wonder what the _hell_ Poppy has given him, because he's beginning to feel decidedly... punchy. Severus begins mentally cataloguing his symptoms and tallying them in an attempt to puzzle it out. 

"Yes, Miss Granger," Severus replies, once she's gotten her beverage issues managed. He's somewhat subdued, still daunted by the plan the Headmaster has suggested. "Your mastery of the obvious is commendable." Given his all too frequent lamentations over his dolt-ridden surroundings, the left handed compliment might even be half sincere. 

Regardless of the potentially sarcastic response, she seems unfazed in her very evident joy to see him once again alert. "It's so good to see you recovered!" She seems to really mean it. 

He lets out a huff of sardonic amusement at that. "I'm not convinced that's _quite_ the word for it," and glances demonstratively at his body stretched out in an Infirmary bed. Strangely, she blushes in response as her eyes follow his gaze. His brow furrows slightly in confusion, but he continues, "But thank you. It's certainly welcome to have regained consciousness." 

"Miss Granger, join us, won't you?" Albus asks, extending a hand towards the empty chair on Severus' right. A little shyly, but with no discernible hesitation, she enters the room, a bright smile still fixed on her face. She places what would seem to be _her_ teacup down on the small nightstand, _his_ nightstand, wraps the blanket lying there around her petite frame and curls herself into the chair. All in a noticeably _practised_ fashion. Only now does it occur to Severus to wonder why Albus is seated in a chair that isn't _usually_ present in the room, or _to whom_ the blanket belongs. He finds it... disquieting. 

It probably would come as no relief to hear the blanket belongs to Poppy. He should have more carefully phrased the question then. 

No one says anything for a while.

Or so it seems to Severus. He feels a little foolish, now, thinking about his talk with Albus. It was senseless to have become riled before. He hadn't been thinking clearly, simply responding. The bonding will _never_ happen. She'll object, he'll ruefully shake his head, and then apologetically tell Albus he had tried, sincerely _tried_ , but it was sadly all for naught. And that will be the _end_ of it. 

And then it occurs to him that on top of everything else, he will now be subjected to watching her reaction to Albus' mad scheme. As if it hadn't been trying enough to have to seriously consider the thing himself. Her revulsion is something he can quite do without. Not that it wouldn't be a perfectly legitimate response to the thing, not at all, he's in complete agreement, but it's hard not to take that personally as well, and he can do without adding insult to injury. He's plenty injured enough, thank you very much.

When Albus still doesn't speak, Severus decides to mitigate the damage and signal the witch that he's entirely of her opinion, or will be once she forms one. His nerves drive him to take action. That in itself should make him more than a little suspicious, but then that's part and parcel of the problem.

"I'm afraid, Miss Granger, the Headmaster has a perfectly dreadful suggestion he should like to present to you. Rest assured, I am neither behind this lunacy, nor do I endorse it." He manages to sound standoffish, a bit of a feat for someone still stretched out in a most undignified hospital gown, radiating need and dependence with his very appearance. He's feeling pleased with the effort. 

Until he notices her reaction, that is. 

He wasn't prepared to see her smile crumple in response. She seems somewhat... _hurt_ , and a little disappointed, and he can't quite follow the logic behind the impulse. 

He looks at her in surprise. Only now does it dawn on him that she might have _already_ been informed of this wretched plan. Which means the reaction he had hoped to spare _himself_ he has now subjected _her_ to instead. 

Cheers. 

"She's quite aware of my proposal, Severus, thank you. We've discussed it at length," Albus removes the last shred of doubt. 

Bugger.

Severus is off to a flying start then. Without a broom, even. Worse, apparently she's dealing with it more... elegantly than he is. By far, considering he couldn't even tell she knew about this farce. 

Looking at her now, he finally notices her top is whole, of course it is, that was stupid, but it still comes as a great relief. What's less of a relief is that the thing... fits her. Remarkably well. He had been quite happy to never suspect such a curvaceous creature beneath her voluminous robes. And there she sits, inches from his _bedside_ , how inappropriate, in a frankly flattering deep green blouse that suits her admirably and highlights... the curves he plans to continue to pretend don't exist. Particularly in light of Albus' mad plan. 

The image of her in that chair from the other night comes unbidden to mind, and he thinks again how useful a mental Scourgify would be. And then begins itemising potions ingredients needed for the Infirmary's stock, apropos of nothing. 

He lies there willing her to wrap the blanket around herself a little more... thoroughly. It does not have the desired effect. 

She looks... tired. He feels safer focusing on that. There are circles under her eyes, and he assumes that the attack Friday has left her unable to sleep. He resolves once again to take measures against the boys. And then blames Poppy for not giving the witch some Dreamless Sleep. This is ridiculous. He'll brew some himself if need be. Of course, he had probably brewed Poppy's as well. 

Miss Granger's hair is wild in that way it has of taking on a life of its own when she's agitated, crackling with involuntary magic. That should become worse in the minutes to come as they discuss Albus' abominable idea. 

Severus also discovers as he looks at her that he was far more capable of considering this thing in the abstract. He'd been doing so _admirably_ in fact, in light of the strength of his feelings about the matter. Not that he was in any shape to run away, exactly, but the notion held a certain appeal. But with the young woman sat here beside him, his _student_ sitting there... He sees this whole scheme for the vile solution it is. He _can't_ do this. 

Absolutely not. 

"Albus, she's my student. I'm afraid this is _completely_ out of the question."

"Now, Severus, _do_ try to be more constructive. No outright refusals, we're considering terms here. It should be of no consequence _whatsoever_ that she's your student. There are quite a number of magical protections against abuse of power in place for _just_ that." 

He turns to Hermione in explanation, "Where there is such a conflict of interest, familial relationships by blood or marriage, there is the equivalent of a Wand Oath to compensate. Marks, punishments, even reprimands must be beyond reproach, entirely _impartial_ in such instances," he nods sagely.

_That_ certainly has Hermione's attention. It doesn't sound _remotely_ like a bad thing. On the contrary, she briefly considers that might mean fairer treatment in his class for once... And then she's sorry she thought it. After all he'd risked for her... But still... There's _some_ truth to it. 

She's just deliberating saying as much, or at least that she wouldn't mind leaving it to chance then, giving it a try, when Madam Pomfrey bustles into the room. 

"Severus! So good to see you with us again!"

"I never left, Poppy," he replies dryly. 

"Well, that was a very good impression you made of _not_ being with us then," she smiles at him fondly, flicks her wand and runs all manner of diagnostic tests. Off Miss Granger's hopefully raised eyebrows, she adjusts the Charm ever so slightly so the young witch can see the results as well. Her slight wink as she does so makes no sense to Severus at all. 

"Oh, very good! Very good indeed!" She coos. From what Hermione understands of what she sees, not that it's much, she'd be inclined to agree, but it helps to hear it from the Matron herself. Severus' eyes tick meaningfully to the witch seated next to him, warning Poppy not to be too effusive. The Mediwitch just thinks how fortunate she is that he has no idea they were practising Charms on him the past day and a half. She bites on her lower lip, almost containing her smile.

She reaches in her pockets and draws forth a number of potions which she hands to him. He examines them one by one and then quietly takes them, pausing to consider at the Anti-spasmodic for the still noticeable results of the extremely brutal Cruciatus attack. He decides she's probably right, it's probably still necessary, and takes it as well. When he reaches the Pain Relief, he remembers something and looks up at her enquiringly as he quaffs it.

"Did any Slytherins stop by this weekend for Pain Relief Potion?" He tries to keep his tone neutral.

As everyone present is well aware of his reasons for asking, two of them take similar pains to school their expressions and study the walls. Poppy has no such compulsion and smirks as she reports, "Misses Parkinson and Davies, both Saturday morning. I sent them away empty-handed, per your instructions." Severus nods his approval. Miss Parkinson will have stopped by out of some vestigial concern for Draco. It's rapidly wearing thin. Miss Davies will have seen a problem and set out to solve it.

"Saturday afternoon we had an unusual occurrence, considering there was no Quidditch practice. Mr. Harper stopped by with a broken nose, mumbling about Bludgers, requesting Pain Relief. I told him we were currently out, as I believe you would have wanted, and offered to Stupefy him before I applied the Episkey. He declined, so I fixed it and sent him back. I hope that was alright?"

Severus gives her an impressed smile. He wonders how many Galleons had exchanged hands before Harper had agreed to _that_. It was no matter. The Malfoys had more than enough. There's something hard in his expression, and then it's soft, like his eyes, "Thank you, Poppy. Thank you _very_ much. That is _exactly_ what I wanted, and it can't have been easy for you. I appreciate it."

She shrugs offhandedly, but there's a smile playing about her lips that says she appreciates the recognition. "Well, he had no good explanation for it, and it had seemed very important to you." It certainly had. He'd been half dead at the time, and those might well have been his final words. She had no intention of not honouring his request. And a Stupefy was certainly humane enough. 

She gives him an abrupt nod and then updates him on his condition. "I have no idea how you manage it, Severus. But you'll be up and about in no time."

"Back to class this week then?" Albus now asks politely, as though he hasn't eavesdropped eagerly on each word spoken before.

"Tomorrow, knowing him." Severus nods in wordless agreement. "Although it wouldn't hurt to take another day or two." Severus just stares into space as though she hadn't just spoken; he's quite proficient at expressing himself non-verbally, when he so chooses. She turns to him with an insistent look, "At least promise me to take it easy in class. Don't over do it and ruin all my hard work?"

Severus lets out another huff of amusement, thinking classes are likely to be the least of his problems in the days to come, particularly if Albus has his way, _not that it's remotely likely_ , and readily agrees, "I'll take it easy in classes. Satisfied, Poppy?" She nods curtly, and he smiles his barely there smile at her again, "Thanks again." Hermione isn't sure if he means for the care or Madam Pomfrey's handling of the Slytherins. She suspects both.

Poppy nods at the gathered assembly and turns to leave the room, and it somehow feels a good deal emptier without her personality to fill it. Hermione can't help thinking the Matron and the Potions Master must be rather fond of one another, for all they wouldn't dream of showing it. 

As the three of them find themselves alone again, Severus returns to their previous discussion. "Speaking of classes, I meant it, Albus. If we're considering terms, then there you have _mine_. If you _insist_ on this solution, then she can no longer continue as my student. That's nonnegotiable. She would need to immediately withdraw from my class." 

Knowing the witch in question, he thinks that should be asking more than she'll be willing to give. He's almost pleased with himself. It's an eminently justifiable objection on his part, and he's fairly confident it will lead to her equally sensible refusal. 

"But, Sir," she objects to the Headmaster right on cue, "I can't allow this to compromise my _schooling_. Not if it comes at the cost of my _education_."

"I understand your concerns, Severus. And that's a perfectly reasonable objection, Miss Granger," Albus tries to reassure her. Severus can't help thinking that a _reasonable_ objection would be that the entire plan is completely and absolutely _unreasonable_ , but he seems quite alone in his assessment. "But I don't believe it will do so.

"Tell me, Miss Granger," the Headmaster proceeds seamlessly, utterly unruffled by their objections, "what year were you first able to successfully brew the Polyjuice Potion?" Everyone present is well aware of the answer, but that's a typical Albus ploy for you. 

"Second," she's forced to admit, almost reluctantly, and she can't seem to stop sneaking looks in Severus' direction as she does so. 

"Well there we have it. She'll drop your class, Severus, and prepare independently for her N.E.W.T.s," Hermione looks a trifle panicked at that until he continues, "with perhaps a little help and practice, I'm sure she'll do splendidly." 

And now Severus looks a little panicked, having taken his meaning, "Now you want me to privately tutor her? On top of everything else? _Marrying_ her isn't enough for you?"

"Come come, Severus, it wouldn't do for the wife of a Potions Master to have less than stellar marks in Potions now would it?" They both pale very noticeably at that, and it's a close thing for a moment there, her schooling being something Hermione takes very seriously indeed, but Severus has a head start on her colourwise and ultimately he wins the battle of the blanching. 

In a seemingly self-satisfied swirl of smiles and twinkling eyes, Albus just says, "It's practically settled then. Shall I leave you two to speak?" and takes his leave.

  



	24. 11 09e Sunday - Negotiations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Severus and Hermione_

And so the two are left, alone in their little room, with absolutely no idea what to say to one another. It seems rather a while before either of them is willing to even _try_ to look at the other. Eventually they begin to steal glances, but both seem intent on averting their eyes the moment they have the vaguest sense the other could look up and meet their gaze. 

After some time, Hermione starts, gives herself a shake and then thinks to offer, "I'm sorry, where are my manners? Would you like some tea, too, Sir?" Before he can even respond, she's called for Polly and asks for tea for the man, and soon his cup of steaming tea is next to hers on the nightstand. And still neither makes a move for their cup. 

Eventually, Severus, having noticed that her lip has been healed since Friday night, _of course it has_ , takes the initiative and breaks the silence. "I wanted to apologise, Miss Granger, for not healing your lip." It's hardly earth-shattering, but it's a beginning. 

She just stares at him, gobsmacked and blinking. She can think of dozens of other things _she_ should be saying, ' _thank you for rescuing me_ ', ' _sorry you almost died in the process_ ', but _that_ seems the most ridiculous opening imaginable for the conversation that needs to take place. 

When she doesn't respond, he finds himself trying to explain his inaction, "It was that or clean up the blood, and I thought the blood was potentially more important. More traumatising."

She does find a response to _that_. "Sir, considering the condition you were in, both healing my lip and removing the blood were anything _but_ necessary..."

"As the one who was looking at you, I can assure you _both_ were necessary. Very much so. But I simply hadn't the reserves left for it, and frankly, Poppy's Episkey is better than mine. She does better work healing." He permits himself a closer look, "There's not even the hint of a scar. No one will ever know." What's clear is that he's desperately trying to reassure _someone_ , but oddly neither one of them finds themselves quite sure which of them he's so eager to convince. 

"Professor, I can't thank you enough for coming to my rescue..."

"Think nothing of it, Miss Granger. It was a given. _I_ can't apologise enough for the treatment you received at the hands of members of my House. It was shameful, absolutely shameful. If I can do anything further for you, kindly let me know. I am at your service."

"But, Sir... Sir, as I understand it, it seems you're _already_ being asked to do something for me again. This idea of the Headmaster's..." she trails off, her courage failing her, candidly too embarrassed by what's apparently being required of him for _her_ sake to even speak of it. 

"Are you even remotely considering it as a possibility?" He asks simply. She nods, but still can't bring herself to talk about it. _That_ bodes well... "Then we probably have much to discuss before a decision can be taken." 

He sighs. He's still in bad shape. He feels like he's been through the mangle, which is near enough to the truth, all considered. This was the last thing he'd have thought to be faced with when he woke, but he knows what is expected of him, and at the least, this conversation needs to take place. He shall make an honest effort. With luck, that will send her scurrying off, but he has resolved to do this properly and emerge with a clean conscience.

He tackles what he is sure will prove the most problematic aspect first. There's no point in discussing this further if she can rule it out immediately. Given that she is actually here, speaking to _him_ about _this_ , the two most difficult points seem... addressed for the moment. But he is quite certain the cowardly Headmaster will have made no mention of the necessary living arrangements to her and left that particular joy all to him. 

He can't help sighing again. Then he just bites the proverbial Muggle bullet. "Did the Headmaster tell you that you would be required to move into my chambers?" The flash of panic she completely fails to hide answers that in the negative more plainly than words ever could. Bloody marvellous. "The nature of the Protection Vow makes anything else effectively unpracticeable. That is apparently a firm requirement. We would have no choice."

She swallows and takes several moments before she speaks. He decides he greatly prefers that to histrionics, and is relieved when she does speak that she's able to sound so calm. "Um... Sir, I can't imagine you want a roommate?" 

"Miss Granger!" He sounds a bit scandalised, which given his frankly dark reputation strikes her as amusing, "You will of course have your own room." 

"Um..." and she immediately resolves to say that less often, thinking it makes her sound so... immature. She bites her lip instead and then tries again, "Alright, rephrasing, I doubt you want a flatmate either." 

"It's rarely about what I _want_ ," disgruntlement carries clearly on his answer, and she recognises the sad truth in it immediately. She feels incredibly guilty about this whole arrangement. Of course her next concern just makes things worse.

"Speaking about what you want, Sir, and I apologise for broaching this so... baldly. But I think it's better we speak openly before taking a decision, to ensure as few misunderstandings and grounds for friction as possible." He just nods, not blessed with much patience for waffling, and then she stuns him by abruptly coming to the point, "Sex?"

He practically chokes. He preferred the procrastination. 

"Absolutely not! It should go without saying, Miss Granger, but to be perfectly clear, this _isn't_ a relationship. Sex is _completely_ out of the question." 

She can't help but be just the slightest bit offended at his unwavering certainty on that point. Not that she would have welcomed a response in the _affirmative_ in the least, well, not _now_ , of course not, but still, his _complete_ conviction is somewhat... off putting. Reflexively she grumbles, "A little less vehemence might have been nice..." 

He just stares at her like she's grown another head. If he weren't already planning to kill Albus at some point, he would begin considering it now. Very seriously. 

Completely unaware of his thoughts, for her part Hermione smoothly transitions to smiling, almost having to suppress a giggle, because he had phrased it as being out of the question because this wasn't a _relationship_. As though _that_ were a _prerequisite_ for sex. For a dreaded Death Eater, that's the second cause to doubt his... dread-worthiness that he's provided within a minute. She decides nerves are making her a little giddy, and she desperately needs to rein it in. But really, the utter _absurdity_ of the situation isn't helping.

He gathers himself and then sighs, yet again. He seems to be doing a lot of that. He preferred being comatose, but this matter is just too important to allow her to proceed unless she truly understands all the implications and ramifications, at least as far as they can be projected at this time. In light of that, as loathe as he is to continue this conversation, he digs deep, very deep, and tries again. 

"Unfortunately, it's not just out of the question between us. The whole point to the protections the bond is meant to provide is to make that an _impossibility_ with anyone else. And it will. With a vengeance. As such it is perhaps sensible to enquire, are you currently in a... relationship?"

She stands corrected, the conversation just managed to become even more absurd. So much so that she almost has to laugh at the question. "No, most definitely not." 

Not for the first time, he can't help thinking that teenage boys exhibit a special sort of idiocy without peer in nature. Case in point, before him sits an unquestionably intelligent and reasonably attractive young woman, and he wonders fleetingly why there isn't anyone of significance in her life. Or perhaps there's a problem just waiting in the wings... He really doesn't need the aggro with everything else on his plate. 

Sighing _again_ , and immediately resolving to try to do _that_ less frequently, he sounds positively asthmatic, he perseveres, "And there are no suitors we can anticipate to attempt make _this_ even more difficult for us?" 

She hesitates a moment before firmly answering, "No one in whom I am interested." 

Right _there_ is probably the answer to his question. He knows from first hand experience, it isn't easy, when one is so gifted, to find someone suited. Yet her answer feels both truthful and evasive, so he waits her out with nothing more than a raised eyebrow, and she eventually amends, "But I can't promise no one would have issues with this and cause problems either." 

So perhaps someone waiting after all. He suspects Potter or Weasley, both of them given to sniffing about her skirts for years now. "Fair enough. You are not responsible for the actions of others, nor can you control them. I would, however, ask that you not... fan any potential fires." 

She smirks at that, but agrees wholeheartedly. "I can guarantee I would not do such a thing."  
  


He's trying to be tactful. It really isn't his strong suit. He's not sure he should mention it at all after Friday's assault, but it's something she needs to think about. This could affect her longer term. She needs to be sure. "I can imagine that celibacy isn't a pleasant prospect at your age..." 

She's not quite willing to say that she is in fact not the _least_ bit pleased about the prospect of dying a virgin. She just can't. How could she? For gods' sake, she feels uncomfortable with thoughts about death in general, hers specifically, about somehow managing to lose her virginity _after all_ , certainly after the events of Friday, or the potential implications, were they to in fact go through with this, that he... That she could expect... _might_ expect... _No_. No, there is nothing but discomfort here. Lots of discomfort. Pure mortification. _This_ particular line of thought will most definitely not be pursued. Ever. 

Certainly not _now_.

So she deflects, "I imagine it isn't a pleasant prospect at your age either." 

"Indeed it isn't. I believe I told Albus as much rather directly," he smirks at the memory, a small balm. "I won't lie, that wasn't remotely _welcome_. But it isn't everything.

"You need to be absolutely certain if we were to go through with this. There are no 'second thoughts'; there can be no changing one's mind. The protections this offers it can do so only because bonds such as these are _irreversible_. Were they easily dissolved, neither of us would be protected." 

"I understand, Sir." 

He's not entirely sure that she does. She's been through quite a bit in the past few days and seems far too calm to his way of thinking. This is a _horrible_ idea they are considering, and he doesn't understand why she's still here talking to him about it. She should have run off screaming by now. _He's_ calm, naturally, but he has a great deal of experience with his life going to hell.

There can be no question that she's still fairly fazed from Friday, but he discounts, or perhaps just fails to consider, that her intelligence, much like his, provides her with the resources to think this through instead of just emotionally responding. And she's had more than a day longer than he has to do so. The Calming Draught is definitely a help. It also doesn't occur to him that she has been dealing directly with the threat of the Dark Lord since she was only twelve, that she faced a mountain troll at that age or fell victim to a basilisk only a year later. She's battled adult Death Eaters in life and death situations more than once, and just this summer she was in at least one skirmish that claimed lives. She has more than a little experience with things going to hell, too.

"There are some very real related concerns, and we need to speak of them. May we?" He looks at her until she is able to calmly meet his eyes and nods, and then he proceeds. 

"There is a possibility, that in order to release either of us from this bond, someone might be willing to... eliminate the other. One might hope members of the Order wouldn't resort to such methods." 

She can't suppress a wry grin at that, and then impishly counters, "With Mr. Moody no longer among us, I imagine your chances _against_ them resorting to such means have greatly improved." She wonders briefly at her insensitivity, taking this as further proof that she's overwrought. But somehow his dry sarcasm seems to call for an echo, and she finds herself responding. And almost enjoying it, she thinks guiltily. 

Nevertheless, he agrees with her assessment completely, which he acknowledges with a slight nod and curl of his lip. "As for the... opposition, the Headmaster believes that I might be seen by the Death Eaters as too valuable to sacrifice for that purpose."

"Then we should hope that he's correct." She gives him a small, almost reassuring smile, clearly not entirely convinced, yet intending to show support, but he can't help thinking that's truer than she knows. He could name a few who would gladly Avada him where he stands. Or lies, as the case may be. And _that_ with no added incentive at all... "But what's to stop them from trying to free _you_?"

'Primarily the fact no one would care to', is his first thought, which remains unshared. But it's definitely a legitimate concern, one he had only just voiced to Albus, and he's pleased it's occurred to her on her own. It simplifies things greatly if he needn't explain both the problems _and_ their solutions to her. He wishes Albus could be relied upon to do so. 

"The most likely reason for that course of action would be to free me from any... restrictions. As such, the thinking is that the Vows could be worded so that there is a very credible threat to my well being if anything were to happen to you," she pales immediately at that, "in which case the drawbacks would outweigh the benefit to them." 

Naturally, they have _no intention_ of wording it that way, but she needs to _believe_ it if they are to sell this idea to the Death Eaters. Her memories, her understanding of the situation needs to reflect that, should she ever be subjected to Legilimency. On the other hand, he won't have to sell the idea to _anyone_ if she rejects it for something that would never happen anyway. It's a delicate balance. 

He tries to assuage her worries with a bit of wry humour. "So I would also have to ask that you endeavour not to expire before me, if at all possible." 

She smiles in answer. "I'll make an effort then, for your sake, if not for mine." She actually winks. Cheeky thing. 

"You're too kind, Miss Granger." That might even be a small smile on his face. She thinks it could be a first. "I mentioned it primarily to let you know there is a very slim chance, although decidedly less likely, that something could likewise happen to _you_ if _I_ die, which isn't altogether unlikely. The hope, I gather, is that you wouldn't be similarly affected because the Vows wouldn't be symmetrical." 

"Sir, I should think the _hope_ is that you don't _die_?" 

"Yes, Miss Granger, but you _did_ agree to discuss the possible ramifications. That _might_ be the hope, as you say, but sensibly we have to discuss _likelihoods_..." 

"You're right, I apologise. It's still all rather new and I am having some trouble adjusting. Alright, fine. I'll accept that as a possibility." She turns it over in her mind. "Realistically, one of the reasons Professor Dumbledore suggested this solution is because I am apparently at great risk, potentially..." to her credit, she only wavers for a moment, "potentially of not even surviving otherwise. Do you agree with that assessment?" 

He's thrown momentarily that she should seek confirmation from _him_ , as though the Headmaster's word were insufficient and anything he could add would make a difference, but answers truthfully, "The threat is real. You are at risk." 

"Substantial risk?" He nods. "And this bond should provide a marked degree of safety for me?" 

He nods again. Decisively.

"So if it would it do so without putting _you_ in more danger in the process, then the added risk the bond brings would seem to be more than counterbalanced, and that risk is acceptable. At least from _my_ vantage point. _Does_ it put you in danger?"

He hesitates for a moment. He's not entirely sure if he should answer that correctly. He has an assignment he's meant to fulfil... But he also can't see doing something like... _this_ on the back of a lie. 

"The honest answer is: that's fairly complicated, and the short answer is most likely 'yes'. But of course it's not remotely simple. You shouldn't underestimate the significance of the protection the Fidelity Vow affords me. Professor Dumbledore has explained what that does for me?" She nods. "You'll have to accept my assurances that for _me_ that is worth other sacrifices." 

They sit there is silence as she mulls over what that might mean in concrete terms. When he sees she isn't going to question it, he moves on to the next item.  
  


"There's a different aspect that you need to understand for us to move forward. Do you know what a Geas is and how it acts?" When she nods again, he goes on, "Then you'll understand that the Protection Vow is effectively a Geas, it would _obligate_ me to act. There is _no choice_ involved at that point. That can prove exceedingly dangerous, and we would need to keep a close watch on circumstances likely to trigger it. _Both of us_ would have to agree to modify behaviours that would otherwise force it into play. 

"Further, I can... conceive of situations where you might find it... invasive or inappropriate. Particularly as we are not in a... relationship. Consider that acknowledged, but also that acknowledgment _irrelevant_. 

"You need to be clear, there would be no negotiating, because the actions _cannot_ be changed or helped. They are _not_ voluntary. They are _compelled_. They simply... are. If you can't accept that, we can't do this." She looks at him a little unsure, but tentatively nods, at least in understanding if not approval. 

"I would very much appreciate not being forced to act against my will more than absolutely necessary. I would also consider it primarily _your_ duty to see to it that it happens as infrequently as possible." 

She looks more than a little horrified at the idea. "You make it sound like you'd be nothing but a marionette!" 

"There's an element of truth to that, hence why I'd like for it to happen _very_ rarely. As I believe I mentioned." There goes his sardonic eyebrow again. She can't believe how collected he seems. 

"And the protection the Vow provides you with is worth that to you?" She asks in clear disbelief. 

He's a bit slow to answer, but finally shrugs slightly and adds, "That, and helping to ensure your safety is also a worthwhile goal." 

She's shaking her head, obviously uncertain. 

He continues, "Believe me, being forced to act would prove difficult enough for me. What I would need from you in return in such an event is that there can be no disapproval, no arguing, no recriminations after the fact. It would exacerbate an already only barely tenable situation. Is that in the realm of the possible?" 

She finds herself hesitantly nodding, but patently unconvinced as a whole.  
  


He realises he's scaring her off for entirely the wrong reasons, and course corrects. "I seem to have approached this unfortunately. Shall we agree to honestly assess what we would require from each other for this to work, and then we'll each make the decision based on whether the benefits outweigh the costs for _ourselves_... individually? I can't begin to gauge what this means for your life; I would appreciate it if you didn't try to do so for mine. 

"Make your own decision, not with respect to what you _think_ it means for me. _You_ can't accurately judge; that must be _my_ lookout. Don't presume to know my needs and priorities, and _I_ shan't presume to know _yours_." 

His tone is not unkind, but the words shake her up a little. It's easy to forget in the surrealness of all of this, as they sit here casually discussing serious, irreversible changes they might undertake together to their lives, but they are neither friends nor confidants. He's right, she can't even begin to judge what this means for him. She's so used to trying to optimise decisions for her friends, that she had automatically slipped into that mode of thinking: what would be best for him? Honestly, she hasn't an inkling.

"Sir, you're basically saying that if you were in the middle of Potions class, and I were attacked by a bunch of Death Eaters, you'd have to drop everything and come to my aid and meanwhile Neville could blow the whole room sky high. You wouldn't be able to prioritise." 

He doesn't point out that the same could be true if she were having a sufficiently bad day, no Death Eaters required. She's overly worried about the wrong things as it is. 

"Fortunately, Mr. Longbottom is no longer in my class, as you well know, but I assume you are using him as a placeholder for some other dunderhead. For example a fourth year Hufflepuff who reminds me all too much of Mr. Longbottom for comfort. But in essence, you are correct. Nevertheless, if they _were_ to blow themselves up, let us agree that they probably deserve no better." 

"And innocent bystanders?" She reproves. 

"In my experience truly innocent bystanders are incredibly hard to come by," he answers serenely.

She won't let him make light of this. "And if there's no chance of success, you'd still have to try? Endanger yourself needlessly?" 

Once again there's a slight shrug and a nod. It's very understated. She's extremely uncomfortable with the idea that he could be seriously hurt or killed for no good reason. For _her_ sake. This is _madness_.

She's again on the cusp of rejecting this for what he considers the wrong reasons, and he takes another stab at lightening the mood. "So you can appreciate that I would prefer not to be called in for a disagreement with your..." and he pauses fractionally as he realises he has to qualify the description, and this is probably the moment the consequences of what they're discussing, what they mean to do, become most real for him, "erstwhile roommates about the latest issue of 'Witch Weekly'." 

She puts on a look of mock indignation, "Pure rubbish. I wouldn't dream of reading it!" But then smirks in return, "Point taken, Sir." 

He's primarily relieved that she didn't even blink at his clumsy reminder that she'd be forced to live in his chambers. In fact, she's really only balked due to concerns for his safety. It certainly speaks for her. For the first time he finds himself thinking: this may actually happen.  
  


Merlin.

  



	25. 11 09f Sunday - Observing the Social Niceties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Severus and Hermione_

"Sir, what would your expectations be, beyond working to ensure the Protection Vow gets put into play as rarely as possible?" 

He hasn't a clue how to answer that. Truthfully, he hasn't really given practical details that much thought, because he was certain she'd have rejected this plan by now. He blinks a little stupidly as the silence stretches. 

It occurs to Hermione that he's only just regained consciousness, and this can't be easy for him either. She takes a calming breath and pretending it's the most ordinary thing imaginable, that she isn't speaking to her most notorious professor about... marrying... _bonding_ , bonding him and moving into his chambers, launches enthusiastically into an explanation, "Well, for illustrative purposes, I could picture agreeing to treat one another with mutual respect and civility as a desirable starting point..." 

She trails off, because he's got _that_ look again. The one that indicates she resembles less and less a two-headed Zaphod Beeblebrox and is turning increasingly more into a Fluffy. Bother.

"That might prove difficult," he finally answers, so dryly as to be arid. "I am not known for my good-tempered nature. On the contrary, I am in no sense a social creature and much accustomed to seeking no company other than my own. And even _I_ wouldn't recommend it to another." It's not entirely true, but he sees no benefit to admitting that.

She picks up again, hopefully, "Only, you've been so polite and considerate so far. I thought if we could agree to continue in much the same vein..." Her courage abandons her once more in the face of his disbelieving eyebrow. "Sir?"

"Miss Granger." There's a pause, almost as though that were sufficient, but then he continues, "You have had a dreadful experience this weekend. I like to think that even _I_ am in a position to recognise that and treat a person so... _beset_ with at least a _degree_ of... consideration." He is in fact a little annoyed that that seems so improbable an explanation for his behaviour. Fortunately, his overall annoyance with the situation is so great, that it hardly registers. 

"Beyond that, I can be relied upon to be as _miserable_ and _caustic_ as you _know_ me to be. I can virtually guarantee after a couple of particularly enthusiastic rounds of the Cruciatus, that I won't be in any position to consider _feelings_. Yours or anyone else's."

"I like to think in such a case that I would manage to be understanding." She does her best to look sympathetic. She thinks for a moment and tries to be encouraging, managing only the next misstep instead. "And I believe you had just such an... experience Friday, and your behaviour was exemplary." She'd be almost cute in her cheery optimism were he the least inclined to see it that way. Unfortunately, he is not.

"My... _experience_ , unlike yours, occurs with some regularity." She flinches just at the thought of it. She's reminded again, she really has no idea what his life is like. "While I appreciate your generous... _evaluation_ of my recent... _behaviour_ , you would discover such _experiences_ typically aren't conducive to... _considerate_ interactions. 

"I should hope that Friday _wasn't_ representative of a regular occurrence for you, or the Protection Vow shall keep me exceedingly busy. And again, I should think you can recognise that I was able, in this _singular_ instance, to respond _differently_. You should _not_ expect that to recur. Quite the contrary. My behaviour is rude and abrasive. Positively _vile_." It's possible the annoyance is registering after all... Markedly. 

"Further, it's not simply the immediate aftermath so affected. In the face of it, it is incredibly difficult to muster any sincere interest in the trivial day to day _inanities_ most seem to dwell on. Unsatisfactory marks? Squabbles amongst friends? Bad hair days? Merlin forfend!" She's positive that last one was added exclusively for her benefit. All that's missing is a crack about her teeth. Cauldron, meet kettle. "Somehow they fail to measure up by comparison. Not unsurprisingly, you would find me without any understanding for them."

What can she say to that? It makes perfect sense, and she doesn't doubt the truth of it. For the most part, anyway. Frankly, it explains a lot, and she's ashamed for a moment it hadn't occurred to her. She feels strikingly slow. Just two days ago, he nearly died as a result of the treatment he apparently regularly receives at the hands of the Death Eaters. And _she's_ sitting here telling him he'll need to mind his _manners_. She can see how that might not go over well.

She wonders briefly how his last year compared to hers. What their years would look like mapped side by side. What portion of the time she had spent utterly miserable over Ronald and Lavender's exceedingly demonstrative displays of affection or worrying about a date for the Christmas party the Professor had spent instead being tortured and worrying if he'd survive. It certainly puts things in perspective. She wonders how he finds the patience to deal with students at all, considering... 

But.

Just because he has a point, doesn't mean he's universally _right_. He isn't. She's sure of it. If they have to co-exist, then surely there must be rules governing their behaviour. A social contract. Well, more _social_ then that usually implies, she supposes, but still... A little respect and thoughtfulness can go a long way. She can't imagine this will work if she's stuck in his chambers, subjected to his every unchecked flare of irritability. 

She purses her lips tightly and then firmly tells him as much. "You asked that we honestly assess what we would require from each other for this to work. I should be able to do so without ridicule. I would make every effort to understand that your lack of patience and ill temper can _occasionally_ be justified, and I would expect you to give civility an honest try the rest of the time in exchange." 

Ouch. Well, he probably invited that. He's trying to decide if he would ever approve of this display of backbone, or if it simply complicates his life. At the moment, it's definitely another obstacle. 

But she's still speaking, and he can't chase his thoughts further. "At least in private. I know you have an image to maintain. Along those lines, I am sure there are things you would require. To help maintain that cover, for instance. What would _you_ need?"

He still hasn't got an answer for her. This was never supposed to have progressed this far. Still, he's trying, if only so that he can say he did when he explains the inevitable failure to Albus. "I can't anticipate what would be required to maintain that cover. I expect it depends on how it is received. We would need to be flexible." She looks a little sceptical, and he sees that it will require some explanation so as not to seem a lazy dodge.

"Unconvinced? Let's examine two variations. Keep in mind there are others, as well as shades thereof. If I paint you as Albus' spy, here to keep me in check, it puts you at greater risk, but justifies more moderate behaviour respective the Dark Lord on my part. If I can convince certain parties that this provides me instead with a chance to spy on Mr. Potter's inner circle, then that risk to you diminishes, but the moderation anticipated in my actions occurs in different instances. I might be expected to be more... _pleasant_ in your company, but there would be less reason to refrain with the Death Eaters. Given that latter is one of the benefits we wish to achieve...

"I think we can agree it is worth sacrificing niceties if instead lives could be saved." She has the uncomfortable feeling that he is absolutely serious; this isn't remotely an exaggeration. "The behaviour we would be expected to display varies depending on the accepted scenario. I cannot at this time reliably predict what it would be. I would respond dynamically when presenting it." 

"I could agree to that," she acknowledges. "But surely you have some idea of what you, personally, would require to make it feasible?"

There seems to be no getting away from the question, so he finally relents and gives it some thought. "I would expect you to refrain from negative or disrespectful commentary in public. To demonstrate a modicum of loyalty. I think it would be expected that I demand it no matter which explanation we employ for this... arrangement."

"Loyalty?" She sounds a little incredulous. Really, she's just confused. It's covered by the Vow anyway, and she doesn't understand why _that_ would be his condition.

He misinterprets the reason for the question, and his patience is already more than exhausted. Just as acerbically as he said he'd be, he snaps at her. "Yes. _Loyalty_. Don't _slag me off_ in public. How hard is that to understand?"

And then she laughs. That just angers him more. Now that she knows what to look for, she recognises that every now and again his Muggle background comes peeking through, and yet when it does like just then, it catches her by surprise. This seems so incongruous...

"Sir," she smiles warmly at him, and his flash of annoyance at her laughter begins to abate, "I never _have_. That certainly wouldn't change under these circumstances. I just don't understand that you'd make that a requirement though. I thought it would be covered by my Vow?"

"I'm fairly certain that's _not_ what's covered by a Loyalty Vow. That's about not revealing my secrets, which given my... position seems only sensible. With those circumstances, the role I play, we couldn't do this at all _without_ that restriction. But the Vow in no way impacts your opinion, and doesn't do much to keep you from expressing it. I would... _request_ the public appearance of respect." 

"An interesting counterpoint to my request for the reality of it in private." She reflects on that for a moment and then suggests, "But I could be satisfied with only the appearance of it instead, if that makes it easier?"

He nods reluctantly in answer. 

 

"So the Loyalty Vow isn't some underhanded way to sneak in some old fashioned, latently misogynistic views on, um... marriage..." She ventures to ask. The fact she's asking _him_ and apparently willing to consider trusting his answer as opposed to Albus' is the only thing that keeps Severus from tearing her head off. Not that he's the soul of patience when he replies. 

"Miss Granger, it's _not_ a relationship. I don't know how to be clearer. As to any outdated gender roles that may concern you, what do you want me to say? _'Don't be ridiculous?'_ No. You won't be expected to cook for me. Ever." 

"Believe me when I say that's in your best interest, Sir," she can't help mumbling, but he's still speaking as though she hadn't said a thing.

"Or clean. Or do laundry. Or whatever _else_ is part and parcel of your nightmare vision of domesticity. I will expect you to be a _considerate_ flatmate; that is the sum total of the demands I would place on you. Ah, and you will have to co-exist with a house elf," he can't help twitting her, remembering the S.P.E.W. débâcle rather clearly, and is almost disappointed when that fails to get a reaction from her. 

"But he is _remunerated_ and most certainly not _abused_ ," he finally admits almost grudgingly. 

"If we both survive this war, which _isn't_ probable, I'd certainly never stand in the way of any career plans you had. I honestly can't even think of any other objections, which may even speak _for_ me, depending on your perspective. Or perhaps I am such a caveman as to be unaware of the issues, whichever... If you have any other concerns along those lines..." He can't believe he's having this conversation, and wonders if he's still unconscious. It's really the only satisfactory explanation for it.

He considers briefly if one can apply the Sectumsempra to oneself. He could just slit his throat and be done with it. It would probably simplify things greatly. A great many things...

She has two further concerns, neither of which she quite has the courage to mention. _That_ should tell her very clearly what a bad idea this thing is, but her ears are tuned elsewhere. The first, the decidedly non-trivial issue of family planning, seems fairly irrelevant given his very clear position on ever having intercourse with her and his disinclination to seriously consider the remotest possibility of surviving the war. 

Then, too, she herself has nothing constructive to add to the topic. Her position is basically: if at all, not for a _very_ long time, and relatively _few_? Maybe? That's just it, she really hasn't got an answer of her own. But then she'd hardly needed one. She wasn't sexually active, she wasn't even dating, so she certainly hadn't been considering marriage or a family.

The other issue would be the possible usage or retention of her own last name, but here too her feelings are completely ambivalent. This seems like something only worth discussing in the event both of them survive. Which is apparently very unlikely. Cheering thought, that. Or perhaps when she decides she does feel more strongly about it, one way or the other. But certainly not now. 

So she just shakes her head and answers, "No _further_ concerns, Professor; it's the same ones. The concept of a Geas leaves me very uncomfortable. The Headmaster hadn't really explained the mechanics of the Vows, and I admit I find it... alarming."

 

He looks at her contemplatively for a long time. It's a very appraising look, and as he does, a few things become clear to him. She's just as likely to agree to this for the wrong reasons as she is to reject it for the wrong reasons. Perversely, neither of those possibilities suits him. 

She's seriously considering rejecting this plan due to concerns for _his autonomy_. That's completely wrong. It's one thing to reject Albus' harebrained plan on its own merits, or decided lack thereof, but he doesn't need her making the decision for him like one of her slow-witted friends. He has placed entirely too much faith in Albus speaking clearly with the young woman before him. 

And the other thing is that he has allowed her continued presence here, her willingness to consider this at all, to fool himself that she isn't revolted by _him_. The most frightening issue was never sharing his _quarters_. They are unobjectionable. It was sharing them with _him_ that makes the difference. Being _bonded_ to _him_ , of all people. And one thing he is certain of, she doesn't see him for who he is. She's confused recognition of a person with knowing them. She's a potentially traumatised young woman told she can do a favour for her 'saviour' with this small service. She needs to understand, to clearly see the clay-footed man before her. 

He intends to see that she does.

  



	26. 11 09g Sunday - The Real Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Severus and Hermione_  
>  In which some unpleasant truths are discussed. 
> 
> (Once again, the author respectfully points towards the tags and kindly asks that you know what you're doing.)

He wonders if he's being contrary, which is stupid, because _of course_ he's being contrary; it's practically a defining trait. To be fair, in his experience, if the masses are thinking or doing a thing, it's the best possible indication that it needs serious reconsidering. Being contrary is a blessing, one he came by too late. He's seen it consistently demonstrated that groups, in general, can be relied upon to make poor decisions... 

But there are no groups here. 

Here there's only Albus, himself and Miss Granger, the mean intelligence of those involved so far above the average as to make this an intriguing negotiation. If their purposes were aligned, they should surely arrive at a very promising solution. And therein lies the rub, for they are almost _definitely_ not pursuing the same purposes, and most assuredly not communicating openly about the concerns weighing on each of them.

"You are correct, a Geas is nothing to take lightly. And I am not exactly... _delighted_ by the prospect of being subject to one. However, this solution does provide some important protections for me, and I'm sorry to say that those benefits greatly outstrip the costs. That's how bad things have gotten. Did he speak to you of that at all?" 

"Only very vaguely."

"I can appreciate why." He presses his lips together into a thin, tense line, and considers how to proceed. He is fairly certain that she needs to know, or at least better grasp what this means for him so that she doesn't see this as being just for her benefit. It isn't. They would both be getting something vital from this, and it is only fair that she understands that. 

It is also unlikely that if she is living in his quarters, she won't at some point come to have a clearer picture of what his role as a double agent can mean. Undoubtedly it would be better, if that were going to present problems, that she should be aware of the issues and back out _before_ they commit to something irreversible. 

This will be _far_ from agreeable. 

"I think we should rectify that. May we?" She looks worried, but nods without hesitation. "I have your word that nothing we discuss here now will be revealed to anyone else by any means until I permit it?"

"Of course, you have my Oath." A ripple of magic flows over her. The number of these Oaths is beginning to accumulate. She wonders when that should become worrisome. 

"You understand what I do for the Order?"

"You are Dumbledore's spy in Voldemort's ranks."

"Which means they have to take me for a loyal Death Eater." She blinks. Swallows. It's obvious, naturally, but a little harsh when put so clearly and matter of factly. Of course, if _that's_ tough to hear, it will go downhill quickly from here. 

"To convince them that I am loyal, I am expected to participate as any other follower would. In fact, given I am considered to be _their_ spy here, and something of a double agent, sometimes demands are made of me that aren't made of everyone else, by which I am expected to prove my loyalty. These are life and death situations. To refuse means death." She blinks some more, but remains silent. It's _incredibly_ difficult watching how easily he confronts the possibility of his murder.

"Death means I have failed in my mission, which I am pledged not to do unless I am _physically_ incapable of going any further. The key word there is 'physically'. Not 'morally', not 'ethically'; it doesn't matter in the least how my _soul_ fares or how I _feel_ about a thing. If it is required of me, I _will_ do it, if humanly possible. That, by the way, is what you would be bonded to. Consider it carefully. It's hardly... pleasant." 

Now she's really lost, because no one has ever spoken that openly about _any_ of this to her, and she really isn't sure what to think about it. She's ill prepared. It's a fairly unique occurrence for her. 

"Several integral members of the Dark Lord's inner circle are devolving. Very extremely. I expect many of them weren't all that sane to begin with. The years in Azkaban with the Dementors won't have helped. They are becoming increasingly more extreme, more cruel in their behaviours. And also less trusting of those who aren't. Bear in mind, refusal most likely means death, and consider where that leaves more moderate Death Eaters. Or where that leaves me.

"One such... activity I have thus far avoided is rape." Her eyes go wide. Given the events of Friday night, this is an impossibly difficult topic for her right now, but still he pushes on, relentlessly and almost devoid of emotion. "There are those who are very much aware that I have managed to do so, and it is... probable that in the near future it will be... demanded of me." 

He stops and lets that sink in. She has absolutely no idea how to respond to any of this. Wisely, she just remains silent and waits. When he realises she won't challenge anything he's said, he carries on. 

"The idea is that the Fidelity Vow of the bond would make that an impossibility. _That_ is what I am getting out of this. And believe me, celibacy is far preferable to the alternatives."

"You're saying you might at some point be asked to kill someone, but you'd prefer to draw the line at rape..." She's doing her level best not to be judgmental, and she's reasonably successful, managing to keep her tone fairly neutral, but she's really struggling here. This is so far outside the realm of her experience. Just a few days ago, she was sitting in this man's classroom. Less than two days ago, he was coming to her rescue... It's hard to reconcile that with what he's telling her. 

"No, Miss Granger, it's not that I _might_ be 'asked to kill someone'. I _have_ been, and I _have_ done. Repeatedly. Make no mistake about that. You'd be bonded to a murderer." He could soften it. There's _plenty_ of room to make those actions far less reprehensible. Justified. Officially _sanctioned_. All part of the duties of a soldier at war, and certainly for a spy. But it's best if she sees the absolute worst. If she can cope with it, there's truly hope. 

She's quiet for a long time. He wonders then when she outgrew the wriggling little girl from his classroom, so eager to speak on all topics, her hand waving madly in the air. In front of him sits a thoughtful woman, who considers her options carefully before she leaps. For her part, Hermione is wrestling with some of the realities of this war with which she has just been confronted. 

Until something shifts in her mind, and a few things suddenly fall into place.

"Rape." That makes him flinch slightly. It turns out plain speech is just as evocative when she uses it. "You said before I was at risk. Is that one of the risks?"

"If you were ever captured, almost definitely. I should have thought Friday proved not only that, but that it's even a real threat within these walls."

"And that was why you were so desperate to stop them? You nearly killed yourself in the process."

"I have strong feelings on the matter." She considers that an understatement, all considered. "Many times I have had to stand idly by. This time I was able to do something, so I did."

"And that was worth risking your life? Because you did. Or did you misjudge the risk?"

"No. It was worth the risk."

"I don't think my life was at risk Friday..."

"Most likely it wasn't," he agrees.

"And _still_ you felt it worth risking your life? Even though mine wasn't in danger?"

" _Again_ , for once I was able to act without endangering my standing with the Death Eaters in the process. And I considered it probable that I'd recover. As indeed I have. To be clear, the extra measures I took to spy for the Order were probably what put me over the line."

" _Carrying me to the Infirmary while practically bleeding out_ was what put you over the line." Her tone brooks no argument, and he doesn't respond. She's probably right anyway. She thinks for another moment. "And presumably the Fidelity Vow would offer me the same protection. You couldn't be forced to rape. And no one could rape me." 

He nods. 

"We live in a horrible world." He gives a faint snort in agreement. She's right, what can he say?

Hermione thinks about all the things he said, and can't help coming back to all the things he didn't say. This man risked his life for her. He's demanding nothing in return, on the contrary, he seems determined to scare her off. Less than two days ago, he placed his life on the line to save her. He took her oh so carefully in his arms and carried her, on his last legs, all the way to the Infirmary and demanded she be treated first. He was so gentle. So considerate. And she _knows_ he's underselling himself here. Putting his worst foot forward. She needs this one straight answer. 

"It was worth it to you to risk your life Friday to stop a single rape?"

"Miss Granger, it was very probably a gang rape I stopped, but yes, it would still have been worth it to me had there been only a single assailant. But had there been only one assailant, I probably wouldn't have been in any danger..." he feels compelled to add. 

He still seems to feel the need to distract from and bury his affirmative, but she's on to him. She has only one more question. She gives him a long look before asking, "Do you even want this?"

He pays her the courtesy of answering honestly. This is another thing he hadn't bothered contemplating, so sure was he that she'd reject this plan before it became an issue. "I _don't_ want this. I doubt you do either. But I very probably _need_ this, and the Headmaster has made it very clear: I am supposed to try to make it happen."

"Where does that leave you?" She wonders aloud. It's almost amusing. He really can't seem to give a straight answer, even when their conversation is protected by an Oath. And then it occurs to her that might just be because he doesn't have them... 

"I don't know." He sounds almost a little surprised as he admits it. "I expect waiting for your decision." 

"Then I'm willing if you are."  
  


Somehow that didn't go the way he thought it would. 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I prefer people to be *better* and not worse off for having encountered me. If a *single* one of you needs me to put up warnings on chapters, I happily will. But I'd rather not if it isn't helpful. *Please* just let me know. 
> 
> \- Ginger


	27. 11 09h Sunday - The Real You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Severus and Hermione_

He's in denial. His instructions are simple: he's not to refuse this if she's willing. And somehow she is. That was... thoroughly improbable. And yet here he is. He tries to think what he has to do now, but he's coming up rather blank. He is the picture of stunned silence. 

Hermione waits for a moment and then takes the initiative. "We'll need to inform the Headmaster. He said time was of the essence." 

Severus feels himself blinking. Slowly. Stupidly. He wonders if this is a fugue state. How did she arrive at a 'yes'? There is _no conceivable way_ she should have agreed to this. It was all so damning against it. He tries to think if he forgot to explain some of the drawbacks. Surely he left something crucial out. Whatever else, he'll not have it said he tricked her into this. He wracks his brain but comes up empty once more.

Eventually, he realises she's waiting for a response to something. He has no idea what. So instead he tackles something else he would have seriously hoped to have avoided. He could gladly put this off indefinitely, but he's not a coward, so he asks, "Do we need to inform your parents? Will you want them present..." He has visions of being eviscerated at the hands of an irate Muggle father. It might be preferable to going through with this. 

"It won't be necessary," she immediately answers, her mouth slightly tight, but his relief is clear. She laughs to herself, thinking once again - 'some big bad Death Eater he is'. He gives her another scrutinising look, something in her features must have given her away, and she lets out a huff of amusement. She finds herself speaking against her better judgement, "How on earth do you survive as a spy?"

He raises both of his eyebrows at that and then drawls, "Conceivably, I am better at hiding my emotions when my life depends on it."

"Still, hardly the vision of a fearsome Death Eater."

He purses his lips, narrows his eyes, then gives her a slightly malicious one-sided smirk and replies, "Perhaps that's merely a ploy to convince you of my innocuousness."

When her eyes widen in an instinctive fear response, she hadn't considered that, he actually looks smugly self-satisfied. Her reaction passes in an instant, her fear yielding quickly to logic, and she's irritated with herself that she let him tease her so. He reads that easily in her face as well and has the nerve to smirk more broadly, but that just helps confirm her assessment in her own mind: this is his idea of a spot of fun. She takes note.

He returns to his initial question, reasonably certain that she isn't orphaned, or there would have been mention of the fact. "Won't they need to be informed? Surely after the fact, the information will prove even less welcome." He has a vague thought that she is just trying to put off an unpleasant conversation, but will only exacerbate the situation. 

"No, Professor. We won't need to inform them."

The look of intense pain that crosses her face stops him cold. Now he's searching through his memories once more, anxiously trying to remember if there was something important, something tragic he should have associated with the Grangers... Again, he can think of nothing. He has no idea if that's because there's nothing for him to remember, of if he's just performing so poorly at the moment that it's beyond his capabilities. _That_ thought in itself would be worrying were he more functional, but that's just the point: he is _not_. 

So he takes the direct approach. "Why not, Miss Granger?" And she tells him very sadly what she has done, what she had undertaken this summer in an effort to keep them safe. How she had Obliviated her parents and sent them into hiding. He's appalled. 

And honestly more than a little impressed. 

He can see very clearly how much this has cost her. How much she misses them. Even without Legilimency. This was the desperate last resort of someone capable of loving others very much and putting their safety well ahead of her desires. 

But only in part. 

That's an oversimplification and a whitewash. This was also the action of someone supremely confident in her knowledge and estimation of a situation, and her resultant decisions on how to act. So much so, that she was willing to make unilateral decisions for those nearest and dearest to her. _Life and death decisions_ , for there could be no mistaking that in almost every real sense but the biological, Miss Granger had in fact killed her parents. 

To say she had done so to keep them _safe_ is to completely ignore that they are no longer... themselves. The Grangers are by no means _safe_ ; they are _gone_. What she has accomplished keeps their bodies, but crucially not their _selves_ , alive. First and foremost, what she has done removes them as _leverage_ to be used against her, so she can blithely continue engaging in this war as she so wishes. 

There can also be no denying that this was _not_ the only option available to her. She could have left them a choice in the matter. In all likelihood, had she done so, they would have insisted on taking her with them if they were forced into hiding. Or refused to leave. This was simply the most simultaneously robust and _achievable_ solution, given her resources, that allowed her to reach _her_ goals. At the expense of almost _everything_ that comprised _their_ lives. 

How absolutely... brutal. Bloody _ruthless_.

The fact of the matter is that she might, at least in some senses, be willing to cross lines that he does not. He's not remotely sure what to make of it.

He begins to wonder if he hasn't made exactly the same mistake he thought she would: confusing _acquaintance_ with a person with _familiarity_ , as he's left speculating about how well he knows her at all. In some ways, this heretofore unsuspected aspect of her personality could prove... advantageous for what they must do. He has no doubt it will complicate things as well.

A swirl of magic surrounds them again as he takes the Oath he had asked her to before, to not reveal the things they speak of here to anyone until permitted. He's certain there are a number of things she won't have made allowances for and certainly not been able to seek advice on given what she had planned. Before he makes matters worse, he decides to check the facts for damage control. 

"Whom else have you told, Miss Granger?"

He can't quite place the look on her face, and she's not meeting his eyes, so casual Legilimency is out of the question. When she finally raises her head, he realises with a start: she's told no one else, and her next words, quietly, confirm it. 

"No one else."

"Not even Misters Potter or Weasley?" She just shakes her head.

He's not sure what to make of her entrusting him with this information. Somewhat cynically, it occurs to him that she had been afraid of her friends' judgment. And undoubtedly in light of the things he has already told her about what he has and most probably will again undertake as a spy, she must feel he's not in a position to... criticise. It could also be that she thinks he might be better able to _understand_ her actions than they would, but unfortunately that more generous interpretation doesn't occur to him. 

Nevertheless, in view of her loss, he looks at her rather gently. He has difficulty picturing what it must have been like to have grown up loved and well-cared for as she obviously did, but he can see what this has cost her very plainly. Surprisingly softly, he asks her, "You know you can be brought up on charges for that? For tampering with Muggles?"

She nods, but reassures him, it was before the trace was placed on her wand this autumn. "Miss Granger, you _must not_ speak of this. Tell people they have gone into hiding, if you must say anything at all, but _do not_ reveal what you have done. It puts you at risk. You could end in Azkaban for this. Make no mistake. And sharing this puts both your parents _and others_ at risk." 

She's still lost in her sadness, thinking about her parents stirs up a lot of feelings, but his words reach her and she begins to look puzzled. He explains before she even needs to ask, "If they were being sought, if this information were known, then any Muggle suspected of being them would be at risk. _Not_ knowing you becomes proof of identity, and I should think that applies to the vast majority of the Muggle population. This information _cannot_ be shared."

She blinks in horror at that. That's another thing that had never occurred to her. That she could place literally unrelated, innocent third parties at risk through this... Merlin. That's terrifying. She tries to come to terms with what he has just said and simply nods. "Thank you, Sir. I hadn't considered that. I appreciate your advice."

He nods with a sense of relief. He tells himself that it's because he needn't worry about an irate Muggle father breathing down his neck, looking for blood. Or maybe even that she's capable of being this pragmatic. Such pragmatism would certainly simplify things. It _probably_ isn't because she was so willing to listen to his advice. It most _definitely_ isn't because doing so would keep her safer. And even if it were, that's only because if they do this thing, _when_ they do this thing, it will make protecting her simpler. 

Clearly.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have commenters FrancineHibiscus and Trickster32 to thank for today's double chapter. The breaks fell differently than anticipated, and I had promised the content of this chapter on Thursday, so there you have it. 
> 
> See how nicely that works? ;-)


	28. 11 09i Sunday - Vows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Severus and Hermione, Albus, Poppy_  
>  In which some of the promised flowers put in an appearance...
> 
> * Caveat Emptor - buyer beware

The necessary topics amply covered, and Severus keeps mentally reviewing their conversation to make sure that's true, Miss Granger leaves to inform Albus that they've come to an agreement. He can't help noticing as she exits that her hair isn't remotely as wild as he had expected. He's certain, even, that it's tamer now than when she _entered_ the room, and the fact confuses him. No matter, _he's_ agitated enough for the both of them.  
  


Hermione finds Professor Dumbledore in the Matron's office when she pops in to let her know Professor Snape is available for her. The Mediwitch quickly gathers a few things and goes off to see her patient, leaving the younger witch and Headmaster the use of the room. 

"It's all settled then, my dear?" He asks her. She nods, chewing her lip in a slight show of nerves. "Were there any other terms?"

"No, Sir. Nothing new." She pinks a little, having no intention of discussing the Potions Master's demand for chastity. She realises, of course, that the Headmaster must be all too aware of it, Professor Snape had said as much, but there are limits to what she is willing to subject herself to. _That_ discussion is one. 

She also believes without doubt that he is aware of the relocation requirement and insisted upon it _himself_. Not for _one moment_ does she think it was the Potions Professor's idea. On the contrary, she's more than certain _he_ very much _doesn't_ wish for her to move in. _That_ had helped convince her that he does indeed _need_ this to happen, and that the Headmaster is even less trustworthy than she had previously felt. There was no reason, to her mind, why he couldn't have been upfront with her about that detail. And she felt sorry for Professor Snape for being forced to explain it to her. That was truly uncalled for.

"And you are comfortable with withdrawing from his class?" 

' _More so than with the aforethought chastity..._ ' is the answer ungiven. Instead she replies, "Not entirely, but he seemed insistent. If we mean to do this, he was quite firm about that being a requirement." Which is true enough for both aspects.

"You aren't required to accept those terms," he tells her almost gently, and for the first time she wonders if he _isn't_ pushing this course of action after all? If that had just been her imagination? Or if this is just a different tactic... She also wonders if he really means _quitting Potions_ , or if he has perhaps performed Legilimency on her again and means... that _other_ thing. 

"I believe it's 'take it or leave it'," she replies. "You've convinced me of the advisability, and I can live with the... terms." She doesn't point out that 'you' was plural and actually meant Professor Snape more so than the Headmaster. 

"'Caveat Emptor*' is every bit as applicable, and you _do_ have the option of _leaving_ it. _Remember_ that." She can't help thinking phrasing it as 'remembering' is mostly about being able to blame _herself after the fact_. That feeling only strengthens when he smiles broadly and says, "Well, if that's all settled, what say we get on with it?"

"Now?!" She's completely thrown. That seems... rushed. Certainly _unexpected_. 

"Is there any point in waiting, Miss Granger?" He queries innocently.

She just stares at him. A _bunch_ of things run through her mind. Twice. And then a third time. She's not sure how to answer that, because it seems so _obvious_. If someone _fails_ to see it as obvious, there's probably not much she can say. 

'Professor Snape is currently being treated in the back room for what remains of his _life threatening injuries_ from not even _two days ago_...' That seems a _fine_ place to start. At the least, it might make sense to wait until he's _recovered_. At the _very_ least until the Matron had finished _this round of treatments_. She can't understand why that doesn't seem to register with the man standing across from her. 

And so she stands there blinking a little foolishly. 

It occurs to her that Professor Snape had told her that she couldn't properly gauge his needs in this. That maybe _that_ was the reason for the rush. He had asked her to allow him to make _his own_ decisions, and she, reluctantly, decides he's capable of objecting to the Headmaster _himself_ if he wishes to. That her objections should be solely _her own_. 

It goes against her better judgment. She's been managing the decisions for those around her for so long... 

She turns her attention to her own needs in this and realises that waiting only complicates things for her. Currently, she's hiding out in the Infirmary, hoping not to encounter anyone who will ask her anything she can't answer. She suspects if she tries to postpone this until the Oath expires, that Professor Dumbledore will simply extract another Oath from her. She's correct. And she still has no idea what she'd say to Harry or Ron, or anyone else for that matter. She fails to consider that it won't be much easier _after_ the bonding either, but she's instinctively correct that the focus will then be on the bonding itself and not the events that preceded it. 

So she takes a deep breath and answers, "I'd at least like to get a change of clothes. Formal robes would be nice."

"Oh, quite right, my dear. Of course."

"I'll just nip back to the Tower and fetch some things..."

"Not at all, no need to bother yourself about it." He calls for Winky and tells her to fetch whatever Miss Granger requires. Hermione lists everything she needs, and the elf disappears with a 'pop' leaving behind the faint scent of Butterbeer. Hermione imagines this _is_ easier than trying to explain to Lav or Parvati why she's sneaking her dress robes out of her wardrobe... 

Madam Pomfrey returns just as Winky pops back with the dress and some supplies. "Thank you, Winky," The Headmaster dismisses her. She just shrugs, tugs at her disheveled clothing morosely and disappears again. "Poppy," he begins, taking no particular note of the elf's apparent distress, "would you mind helping Miss Granger prepare? I'll go see to Severus," and out he strolls.

"'Prepare', Miss Granger?" And Hermione now has the pleasure of facing all of the questions she herself still has, fired in rapid succession from the Matron. Unsurprisingly, she can offer no satisfactory answers.  


* * *

  


Albus knocks and enters the back room without waiting for Severus' response. _That_ , Severus thinks wryly, serves nicely as a metaphor for most of their interactions. Superficially observing Miss Granger's 'niceties', but never really reflecting _his_ wants or needs. 

"Miss Granger informs me that you've settled on mutually satisfactory terms." Severus doubts that's quite the expression for _that_ either, but doesn't interject. "She's changing now, and I thought we should do this immediately following." 

Severus is exceedingly glad he's seated. Well, lying down. That's probably even better. He can feel the blood rushing from, or maybe _to_ , his head. Probably _both_ , sequentially. He knew, _knew_ Albus was in a rush to get this done, but he'd never imagined... There's no point in arguing. It's decided. Whether now or later... It probably makes little difference. 

Albus is briefing him about... things. The Oath Miss Granger took which makes doing this sooner helpful for her. Of course, certainly, if he says so. 

That there are apparently _other_ 'couples' who will be following. _Bonding_. They, he and Miss Granger, apparently they're a _plural pronoun_ now, needn't worry that they'll stand out. No, of course not. Severus doesn't intend to. _This_ idea was Albus'. _He's_ just following orders and will ignore any and all responses. This isn't _his_ doing. It's ridiculously naive, and the sort of thing that only makes sense when one isn't thinking at all or so utterly disenfranchised one's ceased caring. Both are close to the truth. 

_Other_ 'couples'. It's absurd. Severus hopes Albus isn't just doing this to provide a smoke screen. 

Shy of Hagrid and a Slytherin pure-blood supremacist Firstie, he shudders at the thought, severely, even if it is only polemic, he really can't conceive of odder bondmates. Perhaps Filius and Olympe. No. There is no conceivable way other 'couples' would provide _any_ kind of distraction or cover. It's pure stupidity. Well, that's Albus' problem as well. 

Slowly it dawns on Severus _this_ is happening _now_ , and it occurs to him he's still lying in bed in an _Infirmary gown_. This isn't _at all_ how he means to do this. He summons Sunny and has him fetch his dress robes. Albus approves, but bites his tongue, waxing on about some other arrangements he's making. Severus isn't listening. He's too weak to get dressed, a promising sign, applies a small assortment of Cleansing Charms to himself and then magics the gown off and his robes on. Not once in the process does he leave his bed. Also not promising. 

He knows he won't do this lying down. He'll have to stand for the ceremony. He summons phials of Anti-spasmodic, Strengthening Potion, and Pain Relief and quaffs the lot, waits for them to take effect and then slowly sits up on the edge of the bed. It takes a moment, a very long moment, for things to stop spinning. 

Albus is still rabbiting on. 

Boots! For the love of Merlin, he's not doing this thing barefooted! 

On request, Sunny brings him his dress boots, freshly polished. Without him even asking, the little elf magics them on him. The two of them have been through much together. Sunny is good at anticipating the Potions Master's needs, and not embarrassing him further in the process. Which is why he's now also wearing socks, even if he hadn't thought to ask for them. Severus is having enough problems remaining upright; he doesn't even notice. 

They wait like that until they hear the sound of the witches approaching. 

* * *

  


Hermione holds up her dress robes, the ones she wore to Bill and Fleur's wedding in August. They're a deep red which was very nice on her, but Madam Pomfrey looks at them a bit askance. 

"Madam Pomfrey?" Hermione prompts calmly when the Mediwitch doesn't speak her mind. Hermione's not anywhere near as clothes mad as nearly every other witch of her acquaintance, and the moue of disapproval at the outfit doesn't send her into a tailspin. Which is good as she's not fond of heights. Or flying. And certainly not _spinning_ while faced with either. 

"It suits you..." the Matron answers, but it doesn't sound... _definite_.

"But?" Hermione coaxes.

"Considering the other half of the equation, perhaps it's not a... _conciliatory_ choice." Hermione blinks, taking her meaning but unsure. "It could be interpreted as throwing down the gauntlet."

She sees the sense in that, she's not convinced as such, but she's open for suggestions, and the _quality_ of those is likely to influence her evaluation of the advice. So she asks, "What would you suggest?"

"I'm not suggesting green or silver or pandering, not at all, but perhaps something _neutral_ would be a wiser choice... Your reasoning for choosing the aubergine yesterday still holds," she volunteers.

The _purple_ had indeed looked nice, and the Matron is quite right about the Muggle-born badge hardly showing on that background. Hermione slips into the robes and transfigures them as the Matron had shown her. Poppy smiles in approval at how quickly she's mastered the adjustments to that spell. The colour suits her just as much as it had the day before, there hadn't really been any question, and that's soon settled. 

Madam Pomfrey Vanishes the bandages on Miss Granger's arm and steps back to take a look at the result. "I'd also suggest removing the frippery from your waist." She tells the younger witch decisively. 

"Frippery?" Hermione sounds puzzled. 

"You have such a nice figure, I can't imagine why you'd detract from it like that. May I?" She enquires, and at Hermione's nod sets to work making small alterations to the dress. When she's done, it's hardly changed and yet unrecognisable. It's far more sophisticated, for one. The colour, naturally, makes a huge difference, but the dress' lines are simplified, and become more elegant. The neckline is changed. It plunges a little more deeply than before and is pleated, accentuating Hermione's décolletage. She blushes a little looking at it, but there's no denying it's beautifully done. 

"Now, shall I help with your hair?" The Matron is quite certain, having known the witch before her for _years_ now, that she probably could use some assistance on that front. Hermione simply nods again. Madam Pomfrey hasn't steered her wrong yet. 

Hair Charms are something every female (and a fair few males) nurse, mediwitch and healer learns early in their studies. It's imperative to have it under control for their work. Given the inquisitive minds involved, the solutions are frequently elaborate. 

Poppy has the good sense to keep _that_ in check, and decides on something simple and soft that leaves Miss Granger's hair down. "There," she says with some satisfaction, "that's _very_ flattering."

"Thank you, Madam Pomfrey," Hermione readily replies, turning her head this way and that, trying to get an impression of the results, but immediately seeing that it falls in a gentle curl, just over one eye, and it's far more subdued. "It certainly looks like some effort went into it. That seems... right for the occasion."

Madam Pomfrey ducks her head, a little uncomfortable with the praise. This is hardly how she normally interacts with the students. But a bonding lasts a lifetime, or she hopes it does, as the alternative would mean either of the participants' deaths, and she's treated both of them far too often to take _that_ thought lightly. It seems... _fitting_ to mark the day as something special. 

"Would..." she pauses, and then decides it's the right thing to do. "Shall I help you with your makeup?" 

Hermione looks surprised, and a little embarrassed, but certainly not averse to the offer. "Would you? Thank you! I... I'm afraid I'm rubbish at Beauty Charms." 

"It's just a question of learning and practice, as with anything else." Poppy waves her wand and then inhales roughly. "Oh. Oh dear." Hermione flinches at the sound, but Poppy lets out a soft chuckle. "No worries, my dear. The results are lovely... They're just a mite... old fashioned. I guess it's just as true for me as you - it really is about learning and practice, and I'm afraid I'm a little behind the times." 

The Matron waves her wand again, and the near wall is turned into a mirror. Hermione turns and can't believe her eyes. At first, she has trouble recognising it's her reflection in the mirror. The difference in the dress' colour is striking. Her hair... With the makeup, she looks a little like a cinema star from the 40's. She looks... 

"You look beautiful," Poppy says simply and with conviction. "I'm just not sure it's what you were hoping for as a result. I guess my age is showing," she admits in a huff of self-deprecating humour. "Perhaps I could tone down the makeup a little, or if you'd like, we can fetch one of your contemporaries?"

Hermione has a flashback to a few too many failed attempts of Lav's which invariably seemed to make Hermione look worse and immediately answers with, "No!" And asking Ginny is clearly out of the question in the given circumstances, how would she explain them... Luna would probably be happy to help without any questions asked, but when she was finished, Hermione would probably be stood here with veg hanging from her ears... "No, that won't be necessary. It looks... _I_ look... You've done a _lovely_ job." 

"I think I can do better, just trust me a moment," Hermione tenses reflexively, those are words she's heard before, invariably followed by a worsening of her condition, but Poppy is far too used to ignoring the tension in students. She takes no cues from it. Another flick and swish and a pleased smile creeps over her face. "Oh, my dear!" 

Hermione turns again to look in the mirror and... Well! The results are remarkable. They look nothing like her, of course, which is why they're so good. The makeup's been toned down some, and seems more appropriate for a wedding than a gala. The overall effect is still very much... retro, but it suits the hair style marvellously and she looks... 

She looks beautiful. 

She knows her mother would have _loved_ to see her like this. Even just a picture would have made her so happy... She tries to keep her eyes dry, but Poppy spots the telltale signs. 

"Now, now, none of that," her lips purse as her concerns about this scheme of Albus' come unbidden to mind. She tries to put them aside, her opinion isn't asked here. But she knows there must be a good number of other things the young woman might be worried about that she can perhaps... 

"Severus is an excellent choice..." She begins a bit clumsily. How does one tell a person their bondmate is... _anything_ really? One shouldn't _have_ to. A bonding is really only appropriate when the participants are absolutely certain of one another. Poppy feels a bit out of her depth right now. 

But then the witch startles her with a slightly watery laugh and answers instead, "I was just thinking, I wish my mother, my parents, could be here for this." 

Poppy has no way of knowing what has happened to the Grangers, and on the surface the thought seems so utterly _normal_ , that she finds herself quite reassured by it. "Just a moment," she says and moves to her desk. She digs about in the lowest drawer for a bit and then her hand emerges clutching a very ancient model of a wizarding camera. 

A Tergeo out of nowhere has Hermone blinking, but her nose decidedly unstuffed. She supposes that was only to be expected from the Matron. And a few more flicks and then the Matron is shooing her up against the window. 

"There, that looks perfect. We'll simply take a picture for them, now won't we?" 

It's a beautiful picture, but captures a slightly haunted look in her eyes as she considers her parents. Poppy might not have spotted it, but it's far more likely she did and takes the reasons for it to be something else entirely - any or all of the objections she personally has to this plan, for example. 

"There, that should do... Oh, no, we've forgotten... Just a moment, dear." 

She sends for Polly, and has her fetch something from the Matron's quarters. Moments later, the elf reappears with a small chest which the Mediwitch places carefully on her desk. She flips the lid open to reveal a jewellery chest, and fishes around until she emerges with a pair of delicate stud earrings in a deep blue sapphire.

She starts fixing them in Hermione's ears with an explanatory "Something old, something borrowed and something blue." And then she turns to the elf again, "Polly, could you please fetch us a bouquet of white flowers from Pomona?" The elf disappears with a 'pop', and Madam Pomfrey explains with a satisfied smile, "Something new." 

Next the Matron pulls out a Y-necklace matching the studs in its silver setting but dotted with small emeralds, rubies and amethysts in addition to sapphires. The amethysts match the colour of the dress perfectly, and the piece ties in very nicely. By the time the Mediwitch has hung it carefully around Hermione's neck, the elf has returned with a passable posey, largely in white but with a couple of red blooms. Hermione is just examining the necklace when she does. It's quite pretty and draws the eye to the flattering neckline of her robes. 

Madam Pomfrey misunderstands the reason for her perusal and laughs, "I'm sorry, I haven't much jewellery, and the variety of stones means it invariably matches my robes well enough." 

That draws a wide and sincere smile from Hermione. She certainly hadn't meant anything disparaging with her study of the accessories, they're beautiful, far nicer than anything _she_ has, and the logic sounds so much like her own. Poppy positively beams when she sees her smile, thrusts the flowers into Hermione's hands and snatches her camera to take another picture. 

"There!" She crows. "Perfect!" 

And when Poppy gives the photo to Hermione later, she's surprised to have to agree that it is.

* * *

  


Severus rises, shaky on his feet, as the women approach. Albus waves his wand and Banishes the bed, nightstand, shelves, cupboard-cum-wardrobe and chairs... somewhere. The room is blessedly barren, for which Severus is thankful. It no longer looks like a place of convalescence, but it also hasn't been subjected to Albus' attentions, which is probably the best he could have hoped for. Albus cannot be trusted to decorate in good taste.

Severus leans up against the far wall of the room opposite the door for support, next to where Albus has taken up position in front of the little room's only window.

Poppy appears just a moment later, her face a strange mixture of trepidation and, inexplicably, pleasure. The trepidation Severus finds all too easy to understand, but he can't for the life of him begin to grasp how she derives any pleasure from these proceedings. Still, if he had to choose anyone to be here for this, she's one of the decidedly less foolish or sentimental. And, he has to admit, if only to himself, he knows she genuinely cares about his welfare. She may be the only one, he thinks, doing Albus an injustice. Fair enough, however, given what he's about to have them do.

Miss Granger enters the room behind Poppy, her nerves apparent, and perhaps a bit embarrassed by the obvious effort she has taken with her appearance. Her feelings about it notwithstanding, it's certainly paid dividends. She looks... she looks... lovely. _Appropriately_ lovely. It makes Severus all the more self-conscious of his state. There's no good way to magic away the signs of his malaise, shy of a glamour, and were he to start with that, where should he stop? A Notice-Me-Not?

She, however, looks absolutely... fetching. 

It's a... _mature_ ensemble, he thinks not at all euphemistically, a blessing under the circumstances. That it's not in the least bit childish comes as an enormous relief. It emphasises her womanly attributes without seeming cheap or indecent, and although clearly made up, she certainly hasn't been tarted up, which he also commends. Her hair falls softly beside her face in a gentle curl that invites touch, not that he ever would. Severus is torn between being thankful that she doesn't appear too young, appreciating just how nice she looks and that she made the effort to do so, and feeling like a lech for having noticed. 

It's not always easy being in his shoes. Why should today prove any different?

He decides she has done this for herself, not wishing to have such a momentous occasion take place in school robes or jeans. He takes no offence whatsoever at the thought, just as he hadn't meant any to her when he dressed to suit himself. _There can be_ no _suiting each other_. For a moment he almost regrets not making more of an effort... But this at least means their thoughts aren't _too_ different as to the significance of the proceedings. He takes it as a good sign, and relaxes slightly as she takes her place across from him. 

He's vaguely aware of Albus directing them about, and then hears the man speaking, "Do you mind, Miss Granger?" But he's taken by surprise when Albus takes a flower from her bouquet... She has actually managed to drum up a bouquet, he notes with a start... Albus takes a chrysanthemum from her bouquet and affixes the stem to Severus' chest with a Sticking Charm. Apparently, despite a surfeit of buttons, none of the corresponding holes were deemed properly located for a boutonnière. He's probably right, but Severus feels obliged to give the man a baleful glance. It's mostly for show and lacking in feeling.

"You look absolutely beautiful, my dear," he hears the old fool spouting. "Doesn't she, Severus?" Severus looks like he might bolt if the man persists in this, but nevertheless manages a stiff nod. All present consider it a good effort, all considered, and Albus has the sense to cease needling before the proceedings come to a close before they can begin. 

"First things first, I should think. Would you both extend your wands please, so they are touching?" They both follow his instructions. "As the current Headmaster of Hogwarts, I ask you, Hermione Granger, seventh year in good standing, do you withdraw as Professor Snape's student?"

"Yes. Absolutely. I do? I do." She's not quite sure what response he's looking for, but that seems to do the trick. It might have been nice if someone had told her what to say. 

"And you, Severus Snape, Professor of Potions and current Head of Slytherin House, do you withdraw as Miss Granger's teacher?"

"I do."

There's a flicker of light over their wands, Hermione could swear it extends to the very walls, and everything seems to pulse faintly, glowing for a heartbeat or three, as though the castle were part of the exchange. And then the moment's over and she's left wondering what _that_ was about. 

When she dropped Divination, she simply walked out. There'd been no need for some kind of _ceremony_. She considers whether this isn't about placating the Professor somehow, and then wonders if she should still call him that. She decides he didn't stop being a Professor, merely _hers_ , and that the title is still perfectly suitable and looks up at the man. 

He's looking a little ashen. Almost as if he were a bit shaken by the rite. He's not particularly, he's simply in very poor shape. 

For a brief moment, everything goes black in front of Severus' eyes, and his knees buckle slightly. Naturally, no one missed it. "Sir?" Miss Granger asks, concern clear in her tone. He just answers with a quizzical brow, as though everyone didn't know _exactly_ what she was concerned about.

"You may need to stop calling me 'Sir' in public," he finally answers when the rest make it perfectly clear they're not willing to overlook the moment of weakness. _That_ almost startles them enough to get them past it, but the little witch is bloody single-minded. 

She smiles a bit nervously and tries again, "It’s just that you looked a little shaky on your feet. Are you quite sure you want to do this _now_?"

He can hear Poppy behind them beginning to make clucking noises of concern for his state. If he doesn't get a grip on this soon, he won't be able to, and the situation will spiral out of his control. If it ever was _under_ his control, that is. "Just gone a bit weak in the knees..." 

At that, Poppy's clucking only intensifies, he can hear her casting Diagnostic Charms, and he can tell she's about to call a halt to things. 

"No better time than the present," he tries to quip, in a tone that unfortunately convinces all present of the exact opposite. 

Putting on a brave face he tries again, this time with a stab at a joke as he looks at Miss Granger, "I believe we had much the same problem on Friday, did we not? Considering what the instances had in common, perhaps it's simply your proximity that has this effect on me."

Hermione's jaw hangs open, apparently waiting for a passing pixie to alight and take up residence. If she's not very much mistaken... No. She's very much mistaken. Clearly. But at the least, it was an attempt at... humour. She doesn't know what to think. There _might_ have been something about the reason for the weakness being his _life threatening injuries_ , but she's finding it impossible to focus on that when he seems to have just... flirted?

Poppy isn't fairing much better. Her expression mimics Miss Granger's near enough. Albus simply smiles like the smug bastard Severus knows him to be, but _he'll_ proceed with the ceremony given the smallest window of opportunity; there's no need to bowl him a googly. The witches, at least, have certainly been thoroughly sidetracked and all concerns voiced on Severus' behalf rendered mute. 

Hermione regains some of her composure and manages to stop gawping. And then she decides to respond in kind, a little unsure of her courage, "Or perhaps you were simply overcome at the thought of no longer having me in your class?"

Albus lets out a chuckle, Poppy gives one of her patented snorts, and Miss Granger relaxes noticeably at this confirmation that she isn't completely out of line. Severus stands staring at the young witch for a moment before he likewise lets out a huff of laughter, answering "You might just be right," with an inclination of his head and a faint smile. "Although less than I might have been were Mr. Longbottom still enrolled." She responds with a smile. 

Albus clears his throat, redirecting everyone's attention. "Really, the room disappoints. It isn't worthy of either of you," and before Severus can intervene, Albus has raised his wand and passed it once over the wall behind him, and suddenly Albus has transfigured generous swathes of ivy and garlands of flowers, echoing Miss Granger's bouquet, strung around the window and the area where they're standing, creating the effect of an alcove of sorts. 

Severus' hand reaches for the elderly wizard's arm and stops him before he can go any further. "Albus," he hisses in a warning tone. 

"Very well, Severus. If you insist. It's enough. Good to know I still have it," he comments, winking at Miss Granger, as though his talents were ever in question. 

Hermione is just happy he hasn't put her on the spot by asking what she thinks. Truthfully, it _is_ pretty. It's probably even an improvement to the room. And while she likes that it's not quite the plain stone box it appeared when she entered, she still wouldn't want more. She's not comfortable making too big of a fuss about this. The more appropriate the trappings, the more it simply highlights how the main components, the bride and groom... the _bondmates_ , are... not. 

Albus must have continued speaking, instructing, commanding, or maybe Severus just remembers what to do. He and the young witch stand across from one another, extend their left hands and clasp them. Her hand is delicate, warm and soft in his. He's just satisfied his isn't clammy. Their left hands clasped, they hold their wands solemnly in their right hands. As the ceremony commences, they bring the tips of their wands together, so that they are just touching over their conjoined hands.

Magic flares at intervals, and they both repeat the words the Headmaster dictates when prompted. It's probably better that way. Both feel they'd be hard pressed to supply the right phrases of their own accords, even had they studied them.  
  


It goes surprising well, really, until they reach the very end.

  



	29. 11 09j Sunday - The Bond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Severus and Hermione, Albus, Poppy_  
>  In which Hermione confronts the elephant in the room, in her own mind at least...  
>   
> For Grooot, in appreciation for the solid tip on pages.

_It goes surprising well, really, until they reach the very end._

"You may now seal your bond with a kiss," she thinks she hears the Headmaster say, but suddenly his voice seems improbably thin and tinny and _incredibly_ far away. Hermione has never been to a bonding ceremony. She gathers they aren't often done anymore; they've gone out of vogue. She thinks if she _had_ seen one before, _this_ would have come as less of a surprise. 

Severus, on the other hand, _has_ seen a bonding ceremony before, but that doesn't seem to have prepared him any better for this. Admittedly that ceremony was during the last war when two Death Eaters had sought to bond their magic; it didn't end well for either of them. But apparently it was long enough ago that he had completely forgotten this aspect of the proceedings. He's feeling fairly stupid for that. 

They stand there blinking at each other for a few impossibly long moments, unsure how to proceed. Hermione is wondering if 'may' means they have the option of _not_ doing so, and she certainly doesn't intend to be the one to make the first move. She can only imagine his soul crushing rejection if she tried. That's a humiliation she can do without. 

The Professor, for his part, seems no more inclined to make a move, and she thinks that might be confirmation that this isn't a _requirement_ per se. That is until Professor Dumbledore addresses them both, "You should seal the bond with a kiss." When they still don't move, he adds, " _Now_."

And at that the Potions Master leans down and very softly, so much so she wonders if it actually happened, brushes his lips against hers for the briefest of moments and then withdraws.  
  


She now finds herself blinking even _more_. 

She might even be seeing spots. Later she'll realise that's partially due to Madam Pomfrey snapping a picture. But only partially.

The Headmaster is speaking again; she hasn't a clue what he's saying. Her blinks segue seamlessly to staring, she can't stop looking at Professor Snape's lips. They're firm and soft. Marvellously soft. Enticingly so. And then she wishes she hadn't just thought that. It seems odd they're so soft, considering he just woke from a coma this afternoon. Maybe two days isn't long enough for them to have chapped, or maybe one of the Healing Charms Madam Pomfrey employed prevented it. But the thought comes unbidden that he could have lingered a little longer. 

He smells _fantastic_ , an unusual mix of musky yet clean. She wonders if the spells the Mediwitch employs are the reason for that. There's a heady scent that can only be _him_ , it's very masculine and _human_ , not artificial or... foreign, and it's gotten stronger the longer he's been in hospital. She'd found it somehow comforting as she sat by his side. But there are none of the acrid notes that come from sweat she would expect in correlation. She suspects the Charm strips those away, probably killing or more likely Vanishing the bacteria - her Muggle knowledge of biology augments the magical in typical Hermione fashion. She assumes that would leave the person's natural scent behind... She's a little embarrassed to discover she likes the smell of him; that she finds it every bit as alluring as his lips. 

And there's something about his touch that has her a little breathless. His hand, remarkably strong in hers _despite_ his weakened condition; his hair, so silky soft as it tickled across her cheek... She's sure some of that is excitement, naturally, a case of nerves in the face of what they're doing here. But that doesn't really begin to explain her response. No, there are other, all too _obvious_ reasons for that she's trying _very_ hard not to think about, and she succeeds, mostly, at least for a moment. So she thinks instead about his touch - his hand in hers, his lips on hers - it's pleasing. Sure. Gentle. Not slobbery, groping or fumbling. Which is probably just one of the differences between men and boys. 

She tries to breathe normally. It proves difficult. Those thoughts aren't helping. And then her focus begins to slip.

The simple truth is she thinks lifetime celibacy is _stupid_ when there are eminently reasonable _options_ , and there is absolutely _no_ chance she's hoping for the death of the man who just came to her rescue. On the contrary, she plans to do everything in her power to see he survives, with or without the Loyalty Vow. So as to those reasonable options... 

Another truth is that the Potion Friday had exposed her to a number of thoughts and ideas she probably wouldn't have _dared_ allow herself to explore otherwise, and having Lavender as a roommate all these years has left its mark. When Hermione gives her imagination free rein, she is in fact _quite_ imaginative, and she considers her bondmate a _definite_ option. And a _good_ one. For a great _many_ things. 

Most of which would have her blushing furiously were she just to think of them. 

So she absolutely doesn't. 

Much.

Hermione honestly hasn't harboured some secret crush on him all this time. She hasn't lusted after him from afar. She would _never_ have allowed herself to do so. Well, not since second year anyway. _He_ was the one who cured her of that, in fact. _Dramatically_. Fantasising about him would have struck her as immature and foolish. She sees herself as neither and tries to behave accordingly. Despite his voice.

But he _does_ have a number of attributes she personally finds _very_ attractive, and she _has_ incorporated one or the other, or possibly more, into her checklist for dream partners over the years. Those hands, that voice... His obvious skill, knowledge, intelligence, acerbic wit, precision, determination, dexterity, loyalty, character... There may be more; she hardly knows him. Still, the fantasies weren't ever quite about _him_. 

But under the effects of the Potion the other night, she took that hurdle. At a flying _gallop_. Over the spanse of an hour, she had fantasised about him in rapid succession in every remotely appealing scenario known to her and then made up a few more. What those fantasies lacked in detail, they more than made up for with graphic variety. Quite a lot of it.

And that's a problem, a very real problem. He's been crystal clear about what he wants. She understood him, perfectly, his requirements, his conditions, and she _agreed_. It's been only _seconds_ since she _accepted_ those limitations by bonding with him, and first and foremost amongst them is that their relationship, whatever form it takes, will be non-physical. And _already_ she's wondering about convincing him to reevaluate that. _After_ the war, of course, but still...

Admittedly, having envisioned something Friday is _no_ indication whatsoever she actually _wants_ it. Under the influence of the potion, she'd also pictured, well, _Malfoy_ , but only because he was _present_ , and presumably equipped with the necessary, erm, tackle for the job. There'd even been a brief, highly disturbing, fantasy with Firenze that now makes her shudder, for which she has _no_ explanation beyond: the Potion is _terrifying_ stuff and there was a portrait of Centaurs on the wall which probably served as inspiration. And then there were ideas for the creative application of a whole slew of objects that she's _horrified_ just to think about now. But in stark contrast to... her _bondmate_ , _none_ of these were things she'd even remotely contemplated in advance, and certainly not _since_. 

That's a very marked difference. 

Unquestionably, any and all thoughts related to _him_ prior to Friday had been remarkably tame, fairly abstract, but they aren't any more. Not at all.

And so she's feeling rather guilty. She only _just_ agreed to his terms, and _already_ she's going off script. She's ashamed. Embarrassed, both by some of her thoughts and the fact she apparently couldn't just respect his wishes for even the length of the ceremony. Not even a _moment_ , apparently. They're _really_ only seconds into this thing, and here she's wondering if she can't seduce him at some point in the future. After everything's settled... Certainly not _now_ , that would be far too complicated, and frankly mortifying, given her classmates and... but later, _later_ perhaps... 

There's an abiding sense of guilt and shame. For all of _that_ , for the fact he's been pressured to do _this_ to keep her safe. It's a little overawing. She wonders if the Loyalty Vow is making it worse? Compounding the problem somehow?

Professor Dumbledore said... something. There's a flare of magic from both of them, between both of them, it envelops them and sinks into their skin. For a moment she thinks they're glowing, there's a flash, perhaps Madam Pomfrey's camera again, and then everything begins to... slide. Shift. It's all out of kilter. And then she's overcome with a wave of feeling. 

Revulsion.  
  


But it's not her own.

* * *

  


As the magic bonding them settles, he's suddenly rocked by a swell of feelings, none of them his own. A vague note of recognition echoes in the back of his mind; it's hard to hear his own thoughts above the roar of her emotions. But he thinks he's read about something like this. Whatever form of bond Albus had chosen for them, apparently they're to be emotionally linked as well. 

Fucking hell.

He's known Albus, worked alongside him too long to take this for inadvertent. The bastard planned this all along. For fuck's sake. 

He's having trouble staying on his feet under the onslaught of her... _feelings_ , and that's before he can even discern what they are. When he does, it only gets worse.

The humiliation, _her_ humiliation is... _overwhelming_. _Humiliation_ and... guilt. He's not sure as to the source of that guilt, and he honestly doesn't care in the face of her staggering shame and embarrassment. It's literally staggering, in fact. The force of it, the impact has him swaying on his feet. And it's fucking _insulting_. 

His disdain for this solution ratchets up and he's... he's _revolted_ to have been forced into this. It was bad enough as it was, but this... _this_ is how she feels about... about being bonded to him. She must still have been terrified out of her mind to have agreed to it if this is how she feels. She'll doubtless eventually feel she was pressured or taken advantage of. He risked his _life_ to get her to safety. He's risked it more than once, in fact, over the years, trying to keep her safe, and _this_ is how she feels about _him_... It's... it's _humiliating_. She's right about that. 

He's wavering back and forth and it isn't long before his knees buckle. Poppy and Albus have their wands in hand, prepared to cast spells to catch him, but to add to his... humiliation, the witch who finds him so _distasteful_ has caught him, _physically_ , before the others had a chance to act. He can feel her panic that she's now touching him, clutching him to her, trying to support his much taller, larger frame against her far more delicate one, and he just wants her... gone. 

He's losing consciousness again, and is thankfully spared either having to chase her off or watching her flee in disgust by doing so. He's never been so grateful for a faint. His field of vision constricts, tighter and tighter, everything fades to grey, his ears are ringing, and he's having serious trouble understanding anything he hears anyway. He senses more than knows Poppy has rushed forward, and somehow he's tucked back into his bed.

Some information filters through. He's vaguely aware of his robes being magicked off and being returned to the Infirmary gown. He sort of hopes they got the young woman out of the room before then. Magic is being cast. Some of it seems to help. He feels more at peace and soon, soon he's able to fall asleep and get some apparently much needed rest. 

It would seem a couple hours of consciousness had been too much. Or perhaps it was the minutes of marriage. That bodes well.

  



	30. 11 09k Sunday - Bonded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Severus and Hermione, Albus, Poppy_

She sees him begin to pitch forward and Friday night comes flashing back. She can't believe he was allowed to bond her if he's this badly off. On closer consideration, that _joke_ about her presence making him weak in the knees... That wasn't like him _at all_. He was obviously just struggling to put on a brave face for something he apparently had absolutely no desire to do. He must have been blind with anger and loathing at the thought of what he was being forced into, if this is how he feels, and he very clearly isn't anywhere _near_ recovered. 

As he falls, she instinctively reaches out to catch him. He's heavier than he looks, apparently all muscle and bone, and she throws her whole body into trying to hold him upright, clutching him to her. She can't hold him like that, and he's slipping down her front. She grabs him tighter, and she hopes he isn't aware of her effectively crushing him to her breasts. No, not at all embarrassing given how much he loathes her. He'd probably be furious, if he knew, at being pawed like this.

Before he can slide much further down, Madam Pomfrey is at her side and waving her wand and the man is Mobilicorpused once more into the bed the Headmaster has summoned from somewhere. Then Professor Dumbledore Accios a phial and magics the contents away, presumably administering some potion to the Professor as the Matron gets him sorted. A few more flicks, and his robes are removed and he's back in the hospital gown. He looks like he's in bad shape. 

From the noises the Mediwitch is making, the young witch gathers the Professor is expected to sleep for a while now. He certainly looked like he needed it, and the poor man had only been conscious a couple of hours. He really can't be in any shape to have made life altering decisions. 

With a sense of rising panic, she realises he'll doubtlessly eventually feel he was coerced. That _she_ had taken advantage of him. He risked his _life_ to save her, and here she is, letting him be used like this. _Using_ him like this. What kind of person is she?

Hermione could cry. She could burst into tears right here and now, except she doesn't care to in front of the Headmaster, and she's not entirely sure how she feels about crying in the Matron's presence either. Madam Pomfrey can be so terribly matter of fact... She's rarely all that nurturing. Which makes the care she takes with Professor Snape all the more odd, really, although theoretically Hermione likes to see it. Both because it's nice to know someone is taking care of him, and because it makes the Mediwitch seem more human. That's all in _theory_. 

_Practically_ , however, at the _moment_ Hermione doesn't care about _any_ of that. She's just been bonded to someone who finds her revolting. Or the notion of the bond to her, it's frankly hard to tell, and she's not sure it matters. _Revolting_. That's... that's... well, it's certainly _harsh_. 

To think she'd, however briefly, entertained the thought of _seducing_ him. In the very distant future, naturally, but _still_... She'd clearly have her work cut out for her, she thinks in wry, self-deprecating amusement. Revolting. _Revolting_!

It's first year all over again, _nightmare_ , and she finds herself wanting to run off to cry in the loo. Nothing's changed there. Except she imagines the chances for bonding over a troll attack this time around are slim. Great gods, what have they done?

She needs to get out of the room; it's getting smaller by the moment. She turns and makes a mad dash towards the larger outer room. She pushes past the Headmaster, unseeing, and tumbles out, gasping for air that somehow doesn't seem to want to fill her lungs. 

Albus finishes summoning the remaining furniture and returns the room mostly to rights. After exchanging a few words with Poppy, asking her to call for him when Severus wakes, Albus follows the young woman out of the room. She seems to be having some sort of fit. The shock of the emotional bond appears to have done quite a number on both of them, Severus especially in his weakened condition. But he could hardly have prepared them for it in advance; they'd never have have agreed. 

He summons another Calming Draught which he hands to the witch, she doesn't even bother looking at it, that's evidently how much she trusts him, she just downs it in one. Perhaps handing her a poison seems trivial in light of what he's just talked her into doing, or maybe she thinks they haven't got any in the Infirmary's stores. When her breathing finally returns to normal, he places a finger gently under her chin and tilts her face so their eyes meet, and with a silent Legilimens, he dives into her thoughts.

They're murky, indeed.

* * *

  


Professor Dumbledore seems to be speaking to her, Hermione has no idea what he's saying. She must have said something, answered... She supposes this is shock. But the Headmaster is answering, "He doesn't hate you, you know. The solution, the situation, certainly, but not _you_."

Eventually she feels calm enough to believe him, she gets the sense he's repeating himself, until she understands, "He doesn't hate you." When she seems willing to tentatively accept that, he proceeds, "Give him a chance to adjust, it's rather a lot to process." 

She nods a little weakly, and then he continues, "Are you sufficiently recovered to help me?"

She tries to parse the question. He doesn't need her help, whatever it is, he can most likely do more than she will _ever_ be able to. At best, he needs her compliance, her further _obedience_. Sure enough, when she meets his eyes, enquiringly, he explains, "It appears the situation is quite complex. Beyond the Loyalty Vow, I would like to expand on the Oath you took to not speak of the events of Friday, or in any way reveal them, to anyone not in the know."

She can't imagine why it makes a difference. The Loyalty Vow should have covered whatever was necessary. As though reading her thoughts, and possibly he was, he explains, "Such Vows are complicated. Where certainty is required, it is... wise to be overly cautious. This is crucial to the business of the Order. We _need_ this," he insists. She fails to see how.

But she also really doesn't think it will make any difference given the Vow she took, and somehow the Headmaster's requests seem to lack the component that would make them appear... optional. It feels more like politely worded marching orders, and she wonders if this is how Professor Snape feels, and just where one ends after decades of this. Some impudent part of her brain supplies the answer: _in hospital_. 

Nevertheless, she complies. A small flare of magic around her hand later, the Oath is sealed. 

As she rubs her wand arm with her left, it's purely psychological and not physically necessary, she finally notices a small band has appeared on her ring finger. It's the smallest, thinnest ring she's ever seen, almost threadlike, and she can't imagine it won't break the first time she snags it on something. It's also incredibly dark, and... dull. It just sits there swallowing light, as though the metal were tarnished beyond recognition. Apparently _that's_ her wedding ring. Brilliant. 

Albus can read her thoughts all too clearly, he doesn't even need Legilimency for it. He'd feel sorry for her, if that weren't such a luxury he can't afford, and ultimately, he really _is_ sure, this scheme of his is far more likely to ensure her survival. That _must_ be preferable, even in the light of the measures required to do so. Isn't it?

"I'll be back later to check on his progress," he tells her gently as he stands to leave. She's still staring at her hand like it's a foreign entity and might bite her. He isn't even sure she heard him.

* * *

  


When Hermione finally pulls herself together a while later, she's alone in the room. The Headmaster must have left. She's at sixes and sevens, not quite sure where she should go now. She realises that she is expected to move into _his_ quarters when _he's_ released, but that she could hardly do so without _him_. She still can’t talk about what happened, thanks to the Oath, or maybe the Vow, or possibly both, which makes the thought of encountering anyone highly unappealing. She has no desire to lie, and no way to make anyone _understand_. 

She hardly understands any of this herself. 

In the absence of better ideas, the habits of the last couple days lead her back to... her _bondmate's_ side. Madam Pomfrey is also long gone. Apparently Hermione had been... distracted longer than she knew. A Tempus confirms it. The room has been restored to it's previous condition, except that someone seems to have placed her bouquet in a crystal vase on his bedside chest of drawers, and there are still a few sweeps of flowers around the window. 

She summons her clothes and, reflexively checking he's still out, which she somehow _feels_ but doesn't yet trust, she changes back into her Muggle kit. She carefully pockets the Mediwitch's jewellery to return to her later, wrapping it in a bit of batting she summons. Not knowing the Charms to undo hair and makeup, she leaves them; they weren't too over done anyway. 

It might be a subconscious choice, but in the face of his rejection, she feels better about being at least a little prettier than usual. Perhaps not by coincidence, she's selected her best fitting pair of jeans available and the nicest top, the dark purple lace one Madam Pomfrey had made for her yesterday. Undeniably, it does a little something for her confidence. She once again takes the seat beside his bed and settles in with some reading material. As though this were the most natural thing in the world.

A wand flick and 'Accio' summons her books from where they were stowed in the cupboard along the far wall. She and her... bondmate are sharing it. She scans them to recall to mind what homework she should do, and with something that broaches on an hysterical titter, she realises she needn't complete her Potions' assignment. She sends _that_ text floating back to the cupboard with a Depulso and a sweep of her wand. Charms, Ancient Runes, Defence. Charms and DADA were done, they were both two hour practical sessions tomorrow, and she was more than prepared. 

Or had been Friday. Today she's not sure of much.

Runes it is then. Another swish and flick and 'Wingardium Leviosa' has the text floating in front of her and she gets to work on her scroll. Some arbitrary number of inches on some random Rune no one wants to use anymore... She can't muster much enthusiasm for it, but she keeps at it.

* * *

  


He sleeps fitfully, waking briefly now and again. Dimly, he's aware he's not alone, but he never bothers to check. He just can't be arsed. He's _hoping_ it's Sunny. He _knows_ it's not. The ceaseless scratching of a quill on parchment is probably a pretty good indication of that. _Sunny_ never touches the things. 

And of course the emotional flashes they each get from one another whenever he wakes are also damn good indicators that it _isn't_ the house elf seated at his bedside.

Both pretend not to notice.

One of them's despondent. Probably her. Or maybe both of them, actually. Someone's still ashamed. _Definitely_ her. There's the revulsion... Still him. It's hardly encouraging, any of it. What he doesn't understand is why she's still _there_. She should have left and...

_And_ what? He hasn't the vaguest idea. Either where she should have gone, or what she should have done, or what difference it might have made. He wonders if the feelings would come through as strongly were she physically more distant. He's eager to try, if only because her absence would be preferable. Still, he suspects it won't make a bit of difference to what they can sense, but makes a note to test it.

When he finally wakes sufficiently that they're no longer able to pretend he hasn't, she addresses him, "The Headmaster wished to speak to you when you woke. Shall I Floo him for you, or would you like to wait a little longer?" 

It's considerate enough. She isn't just doing as Albus asked, but leaving him some say in this, and he appreciates it. Unfortunately, he's so accustomed to being Albus' whipping boy, that it hadn't even occurred to him to stall. There's hardly any need anymore. The worst has been done. He's used to that, too.

"No, thank you. That won't be necessary. If you could please Floo him now?"

"Certainly, Sir," she answers politely as she rises to leave. She may have been right, he thinks, that honouring social conventions as far as manners are concerned goes a way to making coexistence a sight more tolerable. 

Albus must have been waiting for him to wake, because the witch doesn't return; _he_ wafts in instead. Like a foul smell, Severus thinks. He may still be bitter at having been forced into bonding a student. If mean thoughts help cheer him any, he feels he's entitled.

Her book hovers there in the air next to his bed, a silent reminder that she truly _is_ just a student, and Albus' solution is _vile_. He keeps staring at it while Albus natters on. The old man wants something... Ah, the colleagues will have to be informed tonight. Splendid. He wonders when he can expect a visit from Minerva. He could probably set his Tempus by it. Potter and Weasley will be informed before the rest of the student body. Ducky. It's unclear when that will take place. Severus can't bring himself to care. 

Albus pushes off, probably to brief Miss Granger, and Severus is alone again with his thoughts. Peachy. He thinks this must be shell-shock; he doesn't remember much. Of the bonding, or the talk with Albus. He also doesn't think it matters. When Albus says 'fly', it falls to him to ask 'how high' and then do it. His is not to reason why... Here's hoping he doesn't die in the process. 

And with that comforting thought careening about his head, he drifts off again.

Not long after, a certain witch resumes her vigil by his bedside. Or possibly she just sets about finishing her homework. That can be hard to distinguish sometimes.

Either way, before he wakes again, she's completed Ancient Runes and moved on to Tuesday's Transfiguration prep.

  



	31. 11 09l Sunday - The Wedding Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Severus and Hermione, Sunny_

Dinner comes and goes, and Madam Pomfrey is kind enough to bring Hermione a tray of food. She tucks in with little relish, idly thinking as she pokes at it listlessly that _this_ is her wedding dinner. Exceedingly mushy peas and mash. A leg of rubbery chicken. The food at Hogwarts is usually quite good, and she’s wondering if the mediocrity of the meal is a coincidence, an omen or simply imagined, entirely a subconscious projection on her part. 

Severus rouses a little at the smell of food. He blinks about as his eyes struggle to focus and then spots the young woman, somehow _still_ seated beside him. He can feel her nervousness lapping in waves across the bond, her unrelenting shame, lovely, and barely conscious though he is, he fights to Occlude against it. It shouldn't be this difficult, he can Occlude reasonably well, _stunningly_ well actually, through the _Cruciatus_ , for Merlin's sake. He wonders why _this_ is proving so difficult and decides it's the accumulated toll of the weekend's events getting to him. He's gravely underestimating how invasive the bond's link is, but will soon have to reevaluate it in the days to come. 

"Welcome back to the land of the living," Hermione tries for an upbeat tone. The Calming Draught is still in effect, and it certainly makes a difference. "Would you like something to eat?" She offers him her tray, which he eyes with about as much glee as she had, and then she thinks the better of it and pulls it back. That garners her a raised eyebrow. He hasn't eaten since Friday; he's hungry enough to reach for it even if it _isn't_ particularly appetising. But _given_ that, she's convinced overly salted, rubbery chicken might not be the best way for him to start out. She calls out for Madam Pomfrey, who appears almost immediately, slightly put out, but a polite request for food for the Professor soon has the Matron bustling about happily. 

"I'll be right back with something suitable."

Apparently _that_ would be _gruel_.

He tucks in with little relish, idly thinking as he pokes at it grumpily that _this_ is his wedding dinner. Splendid. _Gruel_. He's hardly an optimist, but he _had_ dared to envision that his wedding feast, were he one day to marry, would consist of, or at least include, _solid_ foods, and that the food, _whatever_ form it took, would at least be... _edible_. The food at Hogwarts is usually very good, for school meals, and he’s deliberating if this is some kind of omen, or a subconscious projection on his part, or if he's just being typically difficult. 

He pokes at it some more. The best he can say in its defence is that it doesn't possess the temerity to poke back. Small mercies. Although he's feeling well enough now to possibly be able to defend himself against it. Fucking hell. He's not even being particularly facetious. He thinks with a shudder about how helpless he'd been Friday night. 

In a fit of pique he'll immediately regret, he snatches up the bowl from his tray and dashes it against the far wall. It's satisfying for all of half a second until the witch next to him jumps, not surprisingly completely startled. He can feel her discomfort through the bond despite his Occluding, and he pulls himself together and reaches for his wand and soon Vanishes the mess and Banishes the now empty tray to the kitchens.

And then he apologises. Yet _again_. "I beg your pardon, Miss Granger. It's been... a trying weekend."

"No worries, Sir. I feel much the same way about their porridge. I'd probably have done the same had I dared." She gives him a soft, tentative smile which he finds himself returning, thankful that she seems willing to overlook the childish outburst. 

When she follows up by offering him some of her chicken once more, he decides he could almost come to like her. He's easy that way when he's hungry. Or maybe that's 'thoroughly cantankerous'. It's one or the other; he's not sure which. 

He reaches for the proffered drumstick eagerly, pausing to eye her only for a second wondering if she'll pull it away again. She chuckles when she recognises the reason for the moment of hesitation and smiles more broadly, "It's all yours. Please, help yourself."

At which he takes a bite with some gusto.

 _That_ coincides with her, "But I fear it's not very good either."

His expression signals his complete agreement. He places the drumstick back with some annoyance on what now seems to have become their communal plate. "No, it's really not." His lips press together tightly. 

She has only a moment to wonder what he's thinking before he seems to take a decision. He grabs his wand, flicks the door shut, and calls "Sunny!" A soft crack of Apparition later, the small house elf from Friday evening, absurdly in what seem to be miniature black robes, appears on the far side of the bed. 

"Master of Potions, Sir?" he, presumably Sunny, enquires. 

"What are the chances of you scrounging up two reasonable dinners for us?"

"Sunny is most happy to help Sir. Sir wants dinners, Sir has dinners." The elf pauses and then can't seem to restrain himself any more. Indicating Hermione, perhaps recognising their rings or, Severus thinks, maybe it's some other arcane house elf magic, Sunny prompts, "Who is lady, Sir?"

Severus' lips press together more tightly than before, but he manages a reasonably civil sounding, "My bondmate."

Sunny can hardly contain his glee. "Mistress of Potions!"

As that is quite clearly _not_ a title she has earned, Hermione immediately corrects him gently, "Not yet, I'm afraid. Maybe some day." 

Severus wonders briefly why her answer pleases him, and then decides it's because it pays respect to the years he spent learning his trade. He's known some... spouses of Potions Masters or Mistresses over the years to avail themselves of the title, as though the simple fact of marriage could equate with all his hard work. He... approves.

That approval lasts until Sunny speaks again, "Then Mistress of Master of Potions!" 

" _No_!" Hermione and Severus both cry out in unison. Severus pales, simply mortified, Hermione on the other hand goes a very becoming shade of pink. Her hair still has that soft waterfall break over her face which Severus endeavours to ignore. When she feels she can finally safely meet his eyes, she raises her head and faces Severus, and with a faint huff of laughter asks, "Do you have any suggestions for him?"

"I think a simple 'Mistress' will suffice, Sunny. Thank you." The elf nods solemnly and Apparates away, probably to fetch them some grub, as the tray between them has now disappeared as well. Severus turns to Hermione, inclines his head deferentially and adds, "At least until you've completed your own apprenticeship."

"That seems more than fair." She bites her lip and then continues, "I take it Sunny is the previously mentioned house elf."

Severus nods, "He's been with me for years. I'm reasonably sure he's saved my life on more than one occasion, and his continued presence is _not_ up for discussion, we are clear?"

"Quite, Sir." Her head bobs somewhat nervously, but she goes on, "I hardly imagined you'd permit me to come in and turn everything topsy-turvy, and you _were_ very clear in advance." She swallows, but it's a matter of a deeply held personal conviction, so she asks, "You said he was remunerated?"

The woman and her damned house elf rights cause... "In a culturally correct fashion. Yes."

"Culturally correct..." She hasn't a clue.

"You wouldn't give your working dog Galleons or pounds; you'd feed him something healthy, brush his coat, play ball. Your loyal Alsatian guard dog who prevents a spot of B&E, or the sheep-herding border collie who never fails to 'come by', you'd reward him with the occasional meaty bone, but he'd have precious little use for money."

It makes perfect sense, and so _naturally_ she can't bring herself to admit it. It smacks too much of defeats from days past, and a grievous oversight, or ten, on her part. So she goes in a completely different direction. A noncommittal shrug is as far as she seems able to acknowledge the sense of what he says, and instead responds "I don't have much experience with dogs, except to wave in passing at the neighbour's. I've only ever had cat of my own."

"A _cat_... of course you do." A vague memory from Grimmauld Place comes to mind. Damn and damn again. "And it will need to move in... _of course_ it will." He's pinching his brow. All in all, he's still incredibly slow. He's having a very hard time shaking off the effects of the weekend. How could he have forgotten the half-kneazle? 

He's resolved not to sigh. He gives his head a fatalistic nod and says, "Just what I always wanted and never knew I needed... a _pet_." 

Hermione would feel guilty about inconveniencing him yet again, except the statement tickles her too much to do so. Instead, she releases a sardonic huff of amusement and interjects, "I should have thought the 'bondmate' part of this weekend's surprises was worse." 

He just blinks in response and remains silent. She's right of course, but he'd been battling not to think of it. And in a rush, it strikes him, she represents a living, breathing embodiment of a _guarantee_ that he'll never, ever be _loved_. _Ever_. 

If he were to survive, which he won't, but it's nice to dream, no one will _ever_ be able to become closer to him. Having presumed the impossibility of survival, he further imagines an almost equally improbable person inclined to feel some manner of affection for him. It's admittedly incredibly vague as there _is_ no such creature, never has been, it's more of a concept frankly, but still... And then he tries to come to terms with the fact the Fidelity Vow will _prohibit_ it. 

He has a moment of shock at the realisation of it, and his face goes slack. It's terribly stupid, really, as _he_ had been the one to try to explain the significance of the Vow to _her_. Although, to be fair, the near complete unlikelihood of his survival means _she's_ probably not similarly damned. The Protection Vow all but assures she'll outlive him. But somehow he had failed to apply the same logic of the Vow's restrictions to himself.  
  


It's almost impossible not to _hate_ her viewed in that light.

And then she starts, seeming to feel that all too clearly through their bond. He feels her responding moment of blind panic and Occludes severely. 

The flare of burning hatred she was _certain_ she had just felt coming from him is replaced almost as quickly as it occurred by... nothing. There's no better way to describe it than as a void. Just as cold as she imagines space is, and every bit as much of a vacuum. It's not pleasant, but on balance, it's preferable to blistering hatred, of that she's sure.

Every doubt she had about... _this_ from earlier comes crashing back, as though rushing to fill that void. The Draught is still helping, and it's not nearly as bad as before. The sensation is less intense, and much less of a surprise, but she's reminded again how _revolted_ he was at this solution, at having _her_ for a bondmate, and her shame intensifies. She feels sick.

The tension is broken when two trays suddenly appear, one hovering in front of each of them. Silently, Hermione pushes hers away from her a little. It's a soup, _still_ not solid food, but at least it smells delicious. Severus gloats that this is now _her_ moment for childish responses, refusing what promises to be a good meal out of spite, until it becomes obvious she was just making room to get to her feet and does. Without a single word and keeping her face downcast, unwilling to meet the Professor's eyes, she makes to take her tray and leave the little room. In the wake of his intense reaction before, it seems prudent.

And just as suddenly as the trays appeared, he realises _that_ , her leaving, his eating alone, _both_ of them eating _separately_ , _solitarily_ , would be even more depressing a dinner, regardless the fare, than the gruel he'd unceremoniously chucked at the wall.  
  


So he asks her to stay. "Please don't leave."

Despite the intense shame she evidently feels, shame, no doubt, for having been bonded to him, the shame that never seems to stop buffeting him through their bond, shame that's wearing him down with its unwavering, inexorable presence... _she's_ been _nothing_ but deferential and polite. 

He can't apologise. Not for his feelings. It would mean admitting things he has no intention of ever giving voice to. And he's not truly sorry for the _sentiment_ ; he feels completely justified in that. But he _is_ sorry for the hurt it apparently inflicted. And he can try to convince her to remain. 

When she still doesn't turn to face him but hesitates at the door, he repeats the request and expands on it. 

"Please, Miss Granger. There's no need to leave. Join me, wouldn't you?" She turns to face him, and he waves one of his elegant hands at her chair in invitation. When she then proceeds to return, albeit slowly, to take a seat, Severus ventures to tease, "At the very least because if Poppy sights you out there with different and, dare I even say _palatable_ , food, she might become suspicious of my closed door and investigate." When she grins a little in response, he keeps it up, "It wouldn't do to have her come confiscating my hard blagged dinner." 

"You know me too well, Sir. I'd hate to see an elf's hard work be for naught." He raises an eyebrow as though affronted. "Or yours," she hastens to add, but her accompanying smile would seem to indicate they're fine. And just like that, somehow it's... alright.

The trays themselves aren't at all the same as the ones they'd had before. The last trays had been utilitarian. These are not. They're more decorative than useful, somehow, lacking a lip to keep things from spilling. Presumably there are Charms to sort that. She battles the urge to test that. But with these much larger, dark wooden slabs hovering in front of one, they impart a feeling of dignity the other trays seemed to rob the user of. It's a little like sitting at a well appointed table. In sections. Odd, but not unpleasant. 

The table linens and cloth serviettes go a ways towards creating that impression. The tableware appears to actually be silver. A cruet with delicate crystal and silver pepper pot and saltcellar materialises beside her, floating unneeded between them, as the dish will prove to be perfectly flavoured. Candlesticks, too, suddenly appear, hovering around them, their tapers casting a soft light as a couple of the room's sconces flicker and then extinguish. 

It all makes the meal seem somehow more grand than the usual fare. Small crystal vases appear on each of their trays, each holding a decorative nosegay, asters, presumably what was still blooming at the moment, dotted with thistle seed-heads amidst sprigs of evergreens, with a cornflower in his small arrangement. 

Severus stares at it for a moment and snorts a little derisively. With a small flick of a finger, he vanishes the cornflower. Taking it all in, looking about demonstratively, he quips, "I feel underdressed."

She gives him a shy smile, raises her wand and enquires, "May I?" which explains nothing of her intent. 

Severus couldn't begin to explain why he trusts her, especially as he'd only just offended her moments ago, but he nods and she flicks her wand and transfigures his hospital gown black. He raises an eyebrow, but makes no other move to stop her, and so she flicks and waves again, and suddenly he's sporting a collar and then a row of highly polished, purely decorative little black buttons appears down the front. They serve absolutely no purpose whatsoever, and the short-sleeved garment is still very clearly recognisable for what it is, but it seems... appropriate somehow, sat here as they are in the Infirmary after all. 

It occurs to him to be relieved she's no longer in formal togs either. She's changed out of the dress robes she was wearing before and back into her ubiquitous jeans. That relief holds until his glance at her reveals... _far too much_ of her exposed beneath the blanket she's once again wrapped in, or so he thinks for a fleeting moment, until a closer look, which he won't even _begin_ to try justifying, leads to the discovery that her top is lined. Small mercies. It looks like ravenous moths have eaten half of it, possibly more. _Decoratively_. He assumes this is lace, he just isn't sure why it's _permitted_. He finds himself once again willing the blanket to more thoroughly... blanket her. It appears this might become a regular phenomenon.

When that, naturally, once again fails to yield results, he nods instead at the outcome of her Transfigurations to his gown and intones sombrely, "That makes all the difference," to which she laughs in response. Severus also couldn't explain if pressured, but he knows for a fact she's not laughing at him. It's a happy laugh, appreciating their situation. Pleasant enough.

A fair deal happier with the spread as well, they attack their meals with a vigour previously absent, even if it is only soup, and it is in fact good. Incredibly good. _Delicious_ , even. 

Additionally, the meal would seem to be served in courses, for just as they finish a truly mouth watering barley soup for starters, the next course appears. Roasted quail, not too dry and _certainly_ not rubbery, with sides that make them long for more. It would also appear their plates are not quite the same. She has far more gravy for the fowl and more of the candied orange relish served along side. The veg and potatoes differ. Severus suspects Sunny is keeping an eye on his diet, given his weakened state. And yet he greatly appreciates the hints of flavour provided.

For her, there are baby potatoes with rosemary and oven roasted garlic she cautiously pushes to the side, drizzled generously with olive oil and peppers he suspects his stomach couldn't quite tolerate yet and freshly ground sea salt and cracked pepper. Spring onions that have no counterpart on his plate, and green beans amandine that seem to have lots of bite left in them, but the flash of envy he feels is quickly squelched by his own sides. 

For him, duchess potatoes piped into appetising little swirls that have been adequately spiced, kissed regrettably with only faint touches of cheddar and chives, but oven browned to perfection. Baby snow peas, only just tossed with a hint of butter, salt and pepper. Although he can clearly recognise where Sunny has curtailed the spicing and fat, as compromises go, it's well done. In fact, he may even like the snow peas more... But it's also a far more refined offering than the gruel, and he's... he's very grateful.

"Well blagged, Sir," Hermione says in obvious appreciation for the meal, as though the little hums of pleasure she keeps making hadn't made that _abundantly_ clear. She'd be embarrassed if she realised what she was doing. As it is, they serve to make Severus smirk in a bit of harmless amusement. They're both in complete accord as to the quality of the meal, and he... likes that she appreciates Sunny's efforts.

"Sunny's a treasure," he's inclined to agree.

Considering that she hadn't wished to eat the garlic, although it _was_ excellent as flavourings go, she decides that the differences in their meals probably aren't entirely about suiting their individual tastes and so she enquires. 

She's observant, he has to give her that. "I expect that Sunny's version of gruel." She looks scandalised at the suggestion and he chuckles, "No, no. The meal's fantastic. I think he's just worried about what I'm eating... all considered. He probably wants to start me off gradually. Several of the other house elves confuse flavour with heat. It's all chillies or pap. There's a world of delectable spice out there most seem to never have heard of."

"Does he prepare it himself?"

"He's never said, and I shouldn't like to give him ideas; I'd be lost without him. But when he has a hand involved in fetching meals, they are always, without exception, better than anything else on offer."

"In that case I'm surprised you ever eat in the Great Hall."

"Only because it's required as a Head of House. And if you pay close attention, you'll notice I don't always eat while there," he explains with a faint smirk.

She had in fact noticed that he sometimes just sat there watching them, and had wondered if he had gastric issues. It wouldn't have surprised her given the work he does for the Order. Now she pictures him going back to his quarters to eat a far better meal all alone. She's glad he at least has a good cook, but it seems a lonely existence. 

They take a few more bites and then Hermione works up the courage to ask something else. "Do you think we could have a spot of wine with dinner?"

He's surprised at her cheek, but readily agrees, "I suppose a drop couldn't hurt." He's no sooner said as much than a wine glass appears on each of their trays, containing just a _splash_. He has to chuckle again, this time at Sunny's antics. The elf and the witch seem roughly equally cheeky. 

He's about to savour a sip when precisely that cheeky witch raises her glass. "A toast, Sir? To many happy years." He freezes, unsure how to respond. He's not entirely certain it isn't a cruel joke. But she thaws him a little, encouraging, "There's nothing wrong with wanting to be happy. Come on, for luck." She raises her glass to him again. Looking rather like some shy wild animal, cornered, he finally raises his glass hesitantly to clink to hers. 

"Cheers," she chirps, evidently mollified. 

"Cheers," he manages back, thoroughly unclear as to why.

The wine is as good as their meals. Sunny really is a treasure. 

"It's a good vintage," he says appraisingly, appreciating the elf all the more.

"Juice of the grape," Miss Granger somewhat nonsensically replies, examining her glass. "Fitting, really."

Based on the strange smile she's sporting, he _knows_ he's going to regret this, "How so?"

"Grape," she answers, as though that explained a single thing. His eyebrows encourage her to continue. "It's our portmanteau."

"Our... portmanteau..."

"Well, or 'Snanger' I suppose, but that's not a thing. Has the clear advantage of being distinctive, though... With 'Grape', you'd really never know..." There's a look on his face that has her backtracking. "Portmanteau, you know, Sir, it's..." The look is not improving. Apparently she finds a shred of clue in her glass she keeps studying and completely reverses course, "Could we just pretend I never said anything?"

"Believe me, I am," he answers dryly, but when he sees her face begin to fall, Merlin knows he can feel her nervousness, he relents a little and throws her a lifeline, "If you'd care to join me in doing so, the more the merrier." That wins him a smile, and he can feel her relax again through their bond. Obviously the preferable result. 

"Expect to be doing a lot of that then?" She asks with a hesitant smile. Again, his brow prompts her. "Pretending I hadn't spoken?" 

"I was considering making it my default approach."

"For the next one hundred and twenty years?" She laughs.

"I'm very imaginative. More than equipped for the task," he answers serenely, choosing not to focus on his unlikelihood of surviving even another year, just for the moment. It occurs to Hermione how she'd thought of herself as imaginative not too long ago, and in precisely what context, and she finds herself biting her lower lip and turning distinctly pink at the memory and the thought of just how imaginative _he_ might be as well...

He couldn't begin to explain her response if he tried. 

"One hundred and twenty years?" He asks instead.

"I was rounding. Up, unfortunately. Although you can hardly complain about a dozen decades, more or less. The Ministry of Divine Health reports the life expectancy of the average witch or wizard to be 137¾ years." _Of course_ she knows the fraction. He needs to learn to encourage her imprecision, or this will become tedious quickly. He tries not to snort at the sentiment. 

He bites back his first impolite reply. And then his second, and opts for the more neutral, "You are aware I am older than you?"

"Yes, but that's the _average_ wizard. You're hardly average."

It's the strangest thing. She's earnest and _sincere_. He feels it. This isn't meant to flatter. To ingratiate. It's a statement of fact, just as plainly as the '137¾ years' was. Without the bond, he'd have taken it for a ploy. He gives her a measuring look and then answers, "I believe I can safely say that is something we have in common." 

The answering smile is something to which he's quite unaccustomed.

"We should have kept your tray," he announces, trying to distract from her smile. Her enquiring glance has him continue, "It was a beginner's mistake, letting it go. The trick is to Evanesco most, but not all, of the food, and then spread the rest artfully about the plate." He nods sagely.

"Well that's one mistake I made this weekend then. I guess Banishing the tray might have helped though?"

"Honestly? Not really." He chuckles. "Poppy's Charms probably let her know exactly what you've eaten anyway. And if not them, one of her Diagnostic Spells _definitely_ will. It's just nice to pretend to have some effect on what happens here."

Hermione's still trying to accept that he likes teasing. And then she wonders how much truth was really in that last statement. She's beginning to suspect that's how he hides things: in the open, buried under wry humour. 

The meal is followed by dessert, a _very_ generous slice of gateau for her, a _much_ smaller, and probably healthier, sad bit of Battenburg for him. Atypically, it's terribly dry, and the marzipan seems a good deal more of a suggestion than a reality, and his envy returns. It's rather ironic, given the praise he just had for the elf's efforts at food sourcing. 

When she takes a bite of hers, the unadulterated pleasure on her face brings his envy back in force. That is until she lets out an absolutely _scandalous_ moan. In a flash, he's uncomfortably reminded of the witch's responses under the Potion Friday night, and swallows. 

"Sorry, Sir." She apologises, and he's initially unsure for what. She gestures to his plate and then hers, "I could save you some. For later?"

He blinks in surprise. "No, don't be silly. Enjoy your afters." But he continues to watch her eating. "I suppose I can have him serve some up when I'm adequately recovered." 

"I'd seriously recommend it," she hums. He'd gathered that much from watching her. On the other hand, there's something nice about a woman who isn't afraid to be seen to enjoy food. He decides to just enjoy her dessert vicariously, watching her till she's finished, except then she stops again to offer him some. 

"Are you sure you wouldn't like a bite?" She extends her fork with a bit of the confection balanced on the end. He just stares at it, unsure how to proceed. "Come on," she encourages once more, "It's tradition."

"What is, precisely?" He questions, unable to take his eyes from the bite of dessert.

She blushes a little, but with a reasonable facsimile of dignity states, "Sharing cake." He finally looks up to meet her eyes, and she blushes some more, but still cheerily holds out her fork. "Go on. I won't tell anyone. Live a little." He still doesn't budge, so she tries again, "And I won't tell Sunny. Come on, open up." 

And then he finds himself doing so. She tries not to laugh that promising not to report him to the _elf_ seems to have done the trick, particularly as the elf seems to be keeping an eye on them anyway. As Severus' lips close on the fork, he can't _believe_ she talked him round, he finds himself thinking his sweet tooth will be the death of him, but this is probably the exchange between them that is the _least_ difficult to justify this weekend. 

Merlin, that stuff is _phenomenal_. He may have said as much out loud, because she's cheerfully agreeing, "I know, _isn't_ it just?" In a flash of panic, he wonders if he moaned like she did. There's no way of knowing... But he's reasonably certain his eyes shut with appreciation, now that he thinks about it. Making a fool of himself for a morsel of her afters...

And then she slides her chair and tray closer and transfigures a second dessert fork from her unused teaspoon which she offers him and asks if he'd care to join her in the rest. She needn't ask twice. He's prepared to make a complete tit of himself, if need be, for more. Fortunately that proves unnecessary. 

It's bliss.

They sit there peacefully, enjoying the feeling that follows an excellent meal, without being overly stuffed, and the trays disappear again from sight. 

"Not a soul," he says out of the blue, but she somehow knows he's talking about not telling someone, anyone, they'd shared the cake. 

That earns him a ready smile. "I wouldn't dream of it. I _promised_. _And_ I don't think I even _can_. That would be one of the benefits of the Loyalty Vow for you right there."

"Clearly worth the effort of bonding for that alone then." He replies in his drawl, but the bond lets her know there's no bite to it. "Actually, we should probably test that. Try telling the next person who comes in."

"But if you give me permission, it's hardly disloyal, is it?"

"You may be right. Damn. Alright, belay that order," he quips. "Tell no one. I'll need to devise some tests for this. Perhaps next weekend. Does that sound acceptable?"

"Consider me at your disposal. I find my calendar fairly open at present." She's left wondering if she's now supposed to try anyway or not. She's not sure she has the nerve to try, unless she's sure he wants her to. But if she's _sure_ then her objection holds... It seems a dubious way to start things off if she's wrong about it. And she's not in a rush. There's no reason not to wait until next weekend. She decides to err on the side of caution. 

Feeling suitably fortified, Severus acknowledges it's probably time to deal with the minutiae of her relocation. "You should probably return to the tower and gather some things. Then meet me back here when you're done." He can't quite bring himself to say he'll take her home after. She knows it's implied, and might actually be more comfortable leaving it that way, too.

"For the moment, I'd recommend that you take only what you'll need for the next several days, a week on the outside," he suggests. "I imagine it will simplify things for you greatly if you can avoid returning for necessities for a few days. At least until the news has been announced and everyone has had time to settle. You can have Sunny assist you, if you'd like."

"Thank you, that's very kind, but I actually have most of the things I want here already. Although I guess Sunny could probably go and get a few items of clothing I'd still need, and Crooks and the remaining bits and bobs all on his own." 

"Crooks?"

"Crookshanks. My half-kneazle," she answers helpfully.

"Why are your things _here_?" He asks, zeroing on the thing that seems very _wrong_.

"The house elves brought them to me," she supplies, rather uselessly. "Polly and Winky," she adds even less helpfully. 

"I had assumed," he drawls, eyebrow raised. "But _why_ was it _necessary_?" When she doesn't answer, he prods, "Did you sustain further injuries Friday beyond your lip?" He's trying to examine her left arm, now hidden again by the blanket and top she's wearing. He'd had the impression it might have been bandaged beneath her blouse before. Her robes, however, had revealed it as unharmed, and he can't quite make sense of it.

"No, Sir. I..." she swallows, and then with a half shrug sort of blurts, "I stayed here with you."

He's at a complete loss for an answer, so he just stares at her for a little while. Finally he settles on, "That seems highly inappropriate."

"Madam Pomfrey said much the same initially," she responds with a touch of humour, "until I pointed out we were supposed to be bonded."

" _When_ did you decide to do this thing?" There's an undercurrent to his question, or perhaps it's the bond, that strongly encourages her not to answer. Wisely, she heeds it. She's now almost positive there's a Chizpurfle close by. She's certain she can hear its claws clicking in the ensuing silence.

"But _I_ hadn't even been _asked_ yet!" He objects forcefully. 

There's something about his indignation that strikes her involuntarily as... cute and almost makes her recklessly want to laugh. Almost. Fortunately, she proves able to fight the impulse with some success. 

"No worries, Sir. We protected your modesty," she reassures him in a way that _now_ has him worried about a bunch of things that hadn't even occurred to him yet.

He's back to blinking owlishly, but he's saved the embarrassment of a response by a knock at the door.

  



	32. 11 09m Sunday - Briefing Staff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Albus, Minerva, Pomona, Filius_
> 
> In which staff are made... aware...

Dinner comes and goes, and at the conclusion of the meal, Albus announces to his Heads of Houses that he needs to meet with them briefly. Immediately. Experience shows that he provides shorter notice when he wishes to avoid their scrutiny during the meal, and they suspect the worst as they adjourn to the faculty lounge off the Great Hall.

“I have some disturbing and some joyous news,” he begins as they take their seats. "I'll be informing the rest of staff after breakfast tomorrow, and the student body at dinner, and I'll thank you not to mention it to them until then, but as Heads of Houses, I wanted you forewarned. Let's get the sad tidings out of the way first and end on a happy note, shall we?" He pauses, mostly for effect, and no one here is green enough to actually take it for anything but a rhetorical question. 

"It grieves me to have to report that one of our Muggle-born students was attacked Friday night." That has his audience stirring in their seats, but he stops their impending onslaught of questions by raising his hand, palm outwards. "She's doing quite well, and there's no need for concern. In the interests of protecting her privacy, we won't be disclosing the facts of the attack to the students. But I assure you, the nature of that assault was most worrisome, _very_ unsettling. 

"Thankfully, the worst was averted, and the danger neutralised. However, it illustrates all too clearly the potential threat to the Muggle-born women. In light of the incident, I have been forced to review many of the safety aspects both here at the school and without our grounds."

At first, hearing of an attack Friday, Minerva wonders if he means Miss Granger's unfortunate encounter in the library, but as he begins to speak of an 'assault', she decides he must be referring to something else entirely. Some days it feels like 'it' will _never_ stop. Their students will _always_ be at risk. And given the way things are going 'without their grounds', as Albus puts it, it seems the risk only increases once they cease being students. But what can a concerned teacher do?

"After careful consideration," Albus continues, and Filius represses a retort that said consideration can't have lasted even two days. Were Severus here, Filius thinks with a glance at his empty chair, the sarcastic Potions Master surely _would have_ said as much, and feels for a moment he's let his colleague down by keeping mum. Albus is droning on, "I have come to the conclusion that the best we can do for those young women in our care is to find them bondmates, preferably within pure-blood society."

Minerva, who at the mere mention of 'disturbing news' had sought refuge in a hot cup of strong tea, had also unfortunately just taken a sip, and at the word 'bondmates' finds herself choking on it rather furiously. It scalds her throat in the process, and she's now wheezing a little in pain, but Albus doesn't let it distract him in the least. Pomona reaches over and claps the older woman heartily on the back, which doesn't help matters at all. The Hufflepuff seems similarly disquieted by the pronouncement, but didn't have the misfortune to be drinking anything when the questionable solution was announced. 

But it gets worse. 

“To that end, three Muggle-born witches have been bonded this weekend to pure- or half-blooded wizards in an effort to ensure their safety.” 

“Albus!” cries Minerva. 

“ _Students_!?" Pomona demands, holding out a desperate hope those witches and wizards are from 'without'. "It’s already happened? They’re _bonded_?” She’s aghast. 

“From which Houses?” Filius asks, more practical than the others. 

“Gryffindor, Hufflepuff and Slytherin,” Albus answers, picking and choosing his questions. That last comes as some surprise to those gathered. They don’t like to admit it, but they have their prejudices. Looking about, one of their colleagues is conspicuous in his absence, and one or two of those present think to be relieved he wasn't there to witness their ill-concealed surprise.

Filius relaxes minutely that none of his charges are involved. It's almost imperceptible, but all present have known him so long, it's as plain as the whiskers on his face. 

“Why weren’t we consulted beforehand?” Minerva, worried about formalities that hardly do any good at this stage. 

“Severus is absent, does he know?” Pomona, concerned about fairness. 

“I think it is safe to say he’s aware of the situation at least in as much as members of his House are involved,” Albus responds accurately, but in a typically misleading fashion. 

"From your House, Pomona, Salome Perks and Zacharias Smith were bonded this afternoon." 

Truth be told, Pomona doesn't care for _either_ of them. She tries to muster the interest to be concerned for two of the least pleasant 'Puffs to come her way in over two decades. Her sense of duty prevails, and she objects, somewhat half-heartedly, "Mr. Smith is only a sixth year."

"All parties involved were of age, I assure you."

"And what of his father?" Speaking of unpleasant Hufflepuffs... "He won't be at all pleased." 

"He wasn't consulted and needn't be. The boy is above the legal age, as I said."

"If you're still referring to him as a 'boy', perhaps he's too young for such things," Minerva rejoins. 

"Minerva, my dear, to me _you_ are but a girl. Try not to place too much importance on a word. And it's of no consequence whether they're too young or not, as they're _already_ bonded."

"And what do you intend to do next year, Albus? Even with _her_ scholastic shortcomings, Miss Perks will manage to graduate this year. The bond will hardly dissolve upon her exmatriculation." Pomona points out. 

"Madam Smith," he corrects her smoothly, "as it transpires, is an unexpectedly good negotiator. To ensure they can be together next year, she managed to persuade me to agree to an apprenticeship."

"Miss _Perks_?" scoffs Minerva. She can't recall when they last had apprentices within the castle walls. It seems absurd to resume the practice with _Salome Perks_ of all witches. 

"Madam Smith?" barks Filius simultaneously, slightly quicker on the uptake, sounding a little like a Pomeranian for his size. "In what subject?" He pities the colleague already.

"Irma was so kind as to agree to assist..." Albus begins to explain as the others laugh. Irma Pince _isn't_ kind and she's _rarely_ helpful. If the whole thing isn't a massive put on, and Minerva is increasingly inclined to believe it is, then the only way _that_ occurred was if Galleons exchanged hands. Many of them. The _only_ thing that rings true about _any_ of it is that Miss Perks... Madam Smith hasn't received an apprenticeship in any of the academic courses. The only other possibility would have been Binns. 

“ _This_ is why you needed all those flowers this afternoon?” Pomona asks, finally making the connection. Her colleagues turn to look at her. She just sits there shaking her head in denial.

"How do you imagine this will work? Students? Bonded?" It's hardly eloquent, but Albus suspects he understands the Herbologist's concerns. 

"They've already been given their own private quarters off the Hufflepuff Basement, still nestled snugly within their House, you needn't fear, much like the rooms we use for the Prefects. I didn't see either of them at dinner. Doubtless they're busy celebrating their nuptials," his eyes twinkle, but both women are very uneasy at the thought of their students, _bonded_ in this fashion.

Albus patently doesn't share their concerns. Cheerfully he continues to report, "From Gryffindor, sixth years Kiera Kilkenny and Dhanesh Devi exchanged Vows and bonded."

"They're both so _young_!" Minerva practically wails. 

"Once yet again, Minerva, _all_ involved have reached the legal age, and are well above the age of consent." She glares at him, obviously unimpressed by that fact, but Albus is unfazed. "They too have been given a room of their own they seemed to like. It's sensibly located in the tower off the Gryffindor Common Room."

Filius muses that the only reason more students weren't... persuaded into this perfectly _horrible_ solution is because more haven't reached the required age. Effectively, all seventh years and currently about a sixth of the sixth years were of legal age, and therefore candidates in that regard. He thanks the gods he has no Muggle-born witches seventeen or older in relationships with pure-bloods in his House, and vows to keep an eye on the only sixteen year old who might come in question in the near future so the same fate doesn't befall her next. 

"For the young woman who was attacked, I fear a simple bonding won't prove sufficient to keep her from harm. Where the threat to the others can truly still be seen as latent, in _her_ case it is most obviously _overt_. As such, I felt strongly a Protection Vow was required."

All listening are rendered speechless at that. It's essentially a suicide pact for the bondmate under the circumstances and quite _unthinkable_. Except clearly the Headmaster has done just that. There's virtually no chance that the young woman isn't the third witch mentioned. Which would mean Albus has just given some poor wizard a death sentence. A Dementor's kiss would have been kinder.

Realising that there are no Muggle-borns in Slytherin and no Ravenclaws were involved in this travesty, the witches turn to look at one another in trepidation, silently asking 'who else?' Minerva hadn't seen anyone except Miss Granger in the Infirmary when she visited yesterday, and she now a little guiltily finds herself hoping someone, _anyone_ else was in the back room. 

"In view of this preoccupation with ages, it should please you to know the last couple... Well, no, that's not quite right. They're not actually a _couple_ per se, so perhaps we should call them a 'pair' then... Their bonding was a good deal more difficult to arrange, for their _not_ being a couple, I must say, but they're also the oldest individuals bonded, which should satisfy you, Minerva." 

All three teachers are _appalled_ he somehow coerced a non-couple into this course of action. Minerva and Pomona now find themselves calculating which of the Muggle-born young women in their Houses are older than Miss Perks... Madam Smith. 

Blood status has become a damned sight easier to remember since the Registration Act required the Muggle-born and -raised to wear badges on their uniforms. 

"In fact," he proceeds, still facing the Transfigurations Professor, "given your concerns about the ages of those involved, you should be relieved to know the last member of your House bonded is also the eldest." Minerva blanches. For anyone less clear on the birthdays of the members of her House he adds, "Hermione Granger is eighteen. Or _nineteen_ , depending on whom one asks."

"Miss Granger? _Attacked_!? _Friday_? I've only just seen her _yesterday_. She was virtually _unharmed_."

"Thanks to some extremely fortunate intervention. Otherwise, things would have been very different indeed."

Minerva's mind is working rapaciously, which is ridiculous, because in seconds Albus will just tell her anyway, but she's desperate to know, _which young man_? He said they weren't a couple... But then Miss Granger is single as far as her Head of House knows, so that gives nothing away. _Not a couple_... 

Weasley? _Oh, please, gods no..._ That _would be a disaster. They aren't suited_ at all _. No... Albus had mentioned a half-blood, and both of the sixth year boys were pure-bloods. So... Oh, Merlin..._ Potter _? Oh, those_ poor _children; there's_ definitely _no romance there... And a_ Protection Vow _! As if the poor lad hadn't enough brooms to bear. No._ No _... It's_ not _another member of her House. He said a_ Slytherin _had been bonded. A half-blood Slytherin..._

" _Which_ Slytherin?" Minerva hisses, rather appropriately for the query, Albus thinks.

"In light of the severity of the threat, I felt the only wizard who came in question was Severus."

If they thought Minerva was pale before, she's positively ashen now. "He wouldn't _dare_." She rises from her seat, trembling with barely checked rage. 

"Extra measures _were_ required to ensure the safety of the witch who was attacked..."

Without another word, she turns and storms from the room, very much like the proverbial bat out of hell, and with more than a passing resemblance to a certain absent colleague of hers. A colleague she now means to find and flay within an inch of his life...

"Albus, you should get after her. I wouldn't fancy being in Severus' shoes when she catches up to him," Filius sounds genuinely concerned. Albus thinks the diminutive Charms Master wouldn't survive a fraction of the things Severus is subjected to, but it's... _cute_ that he's concerned about _this_. 

"She'll probably seek him in the dungeons first. That gives me some time," Albus replies offhandedly. 

"Where is he?" Pomona asks, sensing the story hadn't quite been told.

"In the Infirmary. He was nearly killed rescuing Madam Snape."

" _Merlin's sake_ , Albus, Minerva probably _will_ kill him," Filius finds he needs to explain. 

Belatedly, the wizened wizard realises that the man's absence from this meeting, and indeed all weekend, could be taken in a different context given the news. "If she imagines they've been canoodling in a state of connubial bliss all weekend, I dare say you're right." With a long-suffering sigh, not entirely warranted, he levers himself up out of his seat and heads for the Floo calling, "Infirmary!"

Once he's gone, Pomona and Filius just turn to stare at one another in shocked disbelief.

"Merlin," Filius shakes his head in denial.

"Severus!" clucks Pomona at a loss.

" _Canoodling_!" They cry out in unison, and then the stress gets to them, and they begin to laugh and don't stop until the tears finally come.

  



	33. 11 09n Sunday - Storm Front Minerva

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Severus and Hermione, Minerva, Albus, Poppy_

_"No worries, Sir. We protected your modesty," she reassures him in a way that_ now _has him worried about a bunch of things that hadn't even occurred to him yet._

There's a knock at the door. As interruption is doubtlessly preferable to responding to the witch next to him, and the incriminating remains of their meals are Vanished, Severus calls out, "Come."

Albus, it would seem, just can't pop by often enough today. 

"Albus, to what do we owe the pleasure?" His tone suggests it's anything but, and yet it sounds a great deal more polite than the 'what do you want from us _now_ ' that he's actually thinking. It makes no difference as the older man knows that, and _him_ , all too well. Amusingly, what Severus can sense from Miss Granger through their bond seems no more welcoming. They would appear to be of the same opinion. 

"Severus," Albus sounds downright cheery, "you're looking much improved." He wisely doesn't suggest that marriage seems to agree with the man. But then, he's also reasonably confident it _doesn't_. 

"Poppy hopes to release me tonight."

"I imagine she does. And you're quite certain you'll be fit for classes tomorrow?"

"I intend to be, one way or another."

"Good, very good. I'm glad to hear it." There's a odd lapse in the conversation that Hermione doesn't understand. It feels like something else is going on that she doesn't quite comprehend, and she finds it confusing. The Potions Master seems to have no trouble letting the silence stretch, but it's making her uncomfortable. 

The Headmaster likewise seems unfazed, but the longer it goes on, the more she begins to fidget. Which is silly, really. She's used this ploy with Harry and Ron often enough. 

In the ensuing pause, she thinks again about the Professor's suggestion that she tell the next person who entered about their shared dessert. Or not. She's not _entirely_ positive the Professor _wanted_ her to attempt it, it _was_ rather unclear... But as she fails to see any reason telling the Headmaster should present a _problem_ , Merlin knows, _he's_ fond enough of sweets, she determines to give it a try. If only to break the silence...

Facing the Headmaster and gesturing between herself and the man on the bed beside her she says, "We sh..." She tries again, "We spl..." With a broad grin, she turns to Professor Snape, "It works, Sir." 

He just raises an eyebrow and looks at her in frank disbelief. On consideration, she's now not at all sure he really meant for her to test the Vow, and she's becoming increasingly less sure of her attempt the longer he's silent. "I... I thought you wanted me to check it?" She offers weakly.

"Yes. I can see how 'tell no one' left room for interpretation. It's patently obvious how _that_ could be misconstrued..." he intones and she sinks lower into her chair. 

Even more meekly she answers, "At least now we know it works, Sir."

"I'm not sure that it does quite as you believe, particularly if you were uncertain as to my feelings on the matter."

"I don't quite follow," Albus interjects. 

Severus turns to him calmly and prevaricates, "She's trying to tell you I have a sweet tooth."

"Oh, well that's well established. Staff are well aware," the bearded man assures the young woman, nodding placidly, as though _that_ were a matter of any importance and not completely beside the point. 

And then he continues to address her in what Severus is sure was the reason for this visit, "If you have a moment, there were a few developments I wished to inform you of."

Severus doesn't even bother becoming offended that _he_ apparently _isn't_ to be informed. For one thing, he's fairly certain the little witch will update him anyway, whether _either_ of them want her to or not, and for another, it feels like a... ruse. A bit of hand waving to distract from something else altogether. It's of no matter, it will come as it must. 

She looks at him to see if he has any objections, which is... he's lacking an adjective and settles on 'odd'. 'Unexpected' works as well; 'considerate' is probably more accurate, although he fails to recognise that. He merely shrugs his agreement, or indifference, whichever, and she follows Albus from the room. It takes Severus a bit of effort not to stare at that top she's wearing now that she's shed the concealment of the blanket. Merlin's hairy...  
  


The Headmaster leads Hermione into Madam Pomfrey's office, where the Matron is busy making notes on a parchment. "Albus? Do you need something?"

"If you wouldn't mind, Poppy, might we borrow your office for a few minutes?" Poppy thinks it's a strange request. The Infirmary is empty, and they could speak undisturbed there. If there were need for further privacy, a Charm would provide. But Albus is her boss, and if he needs the room, she sees no reason to argue.

With a "Certainly. The room's yours," she rises, deciding to look in on Severus instead. 

Now that he's conscious, she imagines he would appreciate more privacy in his treatments anyway. _Naturally_ , he'd have appreciated it while unconscious as well, just not as... _actively_. Poppy subscribes wholly to the 'what they don't know won't hurt them' school of medicine. Masters' level. 

Regardless, she'd like to examine his wounds before he scarpers. Getting in at least another application of Dittany before he leaves will go a long way to reducing his scaring, poor lamb. She gathers her kit and proceeds to his room.

"What on earth have you done to your gown?" Can just be heard before she closes his door behind her to begin applying the remedy.

* * *

  


They take their seats at the Mediwitch's desk, and the Headmaster begins to tell Hermione that the Heads of Houses have been informed about the bonding. There have been two others this weekend as well, she believes he's telling her, but right now she's preoccupied trying hard not to picture Professor McGonagall's reaction. It can't have been pretty. 

Apparently the other teachers will be informed tomorrow, and then Professor Dumbledore will pull Harry and Ron aside and brief them. He most likely is talking about announcing it to the school sometime after, it's all a little fuzzy, because if the notion of _Professor McGonagall's_ reaction was distracting, certainly the thoughts of her _friends'_ responses are more so. No, she's having a lot of difficulty following any of it.

Tomorrow won't be pleasant, she realises with a start.

* * *

  


"Severus, how _could_ you?!" 

The the force of the door slamming open, the shriek, there's no mistaking Minerva's outrage. Realistically, it was to be expected, but that doesn't diminish his disappointment. She's known him for over twenty-six years. More than sixteen of those they have been colleagues. He had even thought they were more than just coworkers these days. Possibly... friends. They've both worked hand in hand as members of the Order for years. He had hoped some or _any_ of that would count for something. He should have known better. 

Minerva, for her part, is forced to acknowledge there can be a number of perfectly good reasons for closed doors, particularly in an Infirmary. One of them sits before her. Severus, unusually pale, is seated on the bed, naked, at least what she can see of him, from the waist up, and Poppy is currently daubing a tincture of some kind on his wounds, of which there are many. _Very_ many. 

The Matron turns on her with "Minerva! This is highly irregular!"

The problem with wanting to flay Severus, Minerva discovers when she finally catches up to him, is that the man looks like he's _already_ been flayed. Within a fraction of an inch of his life. Repeatedly. He looks like he fell in a Muggle threshing machine and improbably survived it. He's covered in a network of scars she can't imagine anyone receiving and certainly not _surviving_. Any desire on her part to cause physical harm evaporates at the sight of all the damage he's clearly withstood. 

She finds herself revising everything she thought she knew about his role in the war. Oddly, when he missed classes, more frequently of late, she never thought to question _how much_ abuse it would take to make him do so. She should have known better. In all the years prior to You-Know-Who's return, he'd never missed a one, not even after being bitten by a Cerberus.

He summons a dignity Minerva also can't conceive of anyone possessing and as though she hadn't just grievously violated his privacy, and discovered things she _never_ should have known, he turns to Poppy and politely asks the Matron to give them some privacy. _Privacy_ , that thing Minerva's just robbed him of. She feels terribly wrong-footed already; she'll simply compensate by doubling down on the invectives and accusations. This _cannot_ stand. 

"Thank you, Poppy," he adds as the Mediwitch turns to leave. "We can finish this later."

"Please see that we do, Severus. They still need to be tended." For all the softness in her tone as she addresses him, the glare she gives Minerva on her way out could curdle blood. 

The Transfigurations Professor's bloodlust may be slaked, but she's still spitting nails, and this situation with her favourite student is untenable. She intends to give him a mouthful. "How could you?!" she repeats.

He's still incredibly calm. He's probably used to being accosted like this. "Minerva, tell me please, what was _my_ offence here?" He asks as he quietly pulls his black gown back on. A wave of his hand seems to Vanish buttons she can't account for down its front. 

"What have I done wrong, beyond letting the old fool corral me into a lifetime of celibacy and to sacrifice the little privacy I still had in an environment such as this? Or would you care to extend a similar level of protection and be bonded to Mr. Potter?" She looks absolutely mortified at the suggestion. 

"Quite. Appealing proposition, isn't it? If you have issues with it, kindly take them up with _Albus_. This... _obscenity_ was not of my doing. Neither the situation that gave rise to the need of it, nor this... solution in answer to it. The universal... disapproval will just make it that much more... _pleasurable_." 

He's sneering now, as disdainfully as he can from his sickbed. The effect isn't nearly as convincing as when he's swooping about in his own robes at full height, but he does a passable job, the sincerity of his aggrievement lending it an added degree of conviction.

In the Matron's office, Hermione feels the searing hurt across the bond, the disappointment, humiliation and feeling of... betrayal. Professor Dumbledore was mid-sentence, she thinks, after the fact, but at the moment her focus is entirely elsewhere, and she shoots from her seat and runs to Professor Snape's room, only to hear her Transfigurations Professor lace into him. Albus doesn't even bother trying to hide his smile as she darts off. 

The Professor's lying there, half dead because of _her_. He nearly _died_ saving her. Professor Dumbledore has sentenced him to a life _bonded_ to her, and _this_ is how he's thanked for it?

"She's only a girl! She's your student!" Professor McGonagall sounds livid.

And at that Miss Granger rushes into his room, pushing past the indignant older witch and putting herself in a decidedly protective stance before him. She's such a petite thing, the sight almost makes him smirk at its absurdity. She rounds on the taller woman, metaphorically swinging, drawing herself up to subconsciously match Minerva as best she can in stature and attitude. 

"Not _his_ student. Not any more. I'm no longer in his classes. And hardly a _girl_. I've been of age for more than a year. Over the age of _consent_ for more than _two_. Or even far _longer_ , as the _Ministry_ would have it, considering _someone_ gave me a Time Turner to use. In _third_ year, no less. 

"Technically, I believe one is supposed to be older to use a Time Turner than even required for _marriage_ by Ministry law. I _assume_ you are aware of those restrictions. Did I have maturity _then_ that I somehow lack at _present_?" 

He's not entirely sure what she's referring to, but there's no mistaking her pointed tone or looks, even without the bond telegraphing her feelings, and that accusatory inflection seems to resonate with his colleague somehow. Minerva actually looks a little abashed. Interesting. Perhaps he'll be able to pursue that later.

"Miss Granger..." Minerva begins, trying to talk her cub down. There's unquestionably some affection and protectiveness, but also a certain degree of condescension in the sound of it. The latter comes, somewhat legitimately, from too many years of facing far too much student stupidity, and a resulting inability to see them as responsible adults. He doesn't completely disagree with the sentiment, his experiences matching hers near enough.

"Madam Snape," the young woman cuts across any potential objections. He can barely suppress his choking at that; fortunately Minerva's sputtering is far louder. He'd never have expected her to claim the name, but he can't deny how effective the manoeuvre was. It stopped her Head of House cold. Impressive. For a Gryffindor, anyway. Not completely useless in a fight then.

"He _saved_ me." He feels her gratitude, her respect for him, and more bizarrely... pride. That last he's less sure about, and suspects this might be one of those things that differentiates the snakes and lions. But he bites his tongue and decides to watch this play out for a bit. She seems to be doing fine on her own. Certainly nothing _he_ said was giving Minerva any pause, yet she seems to be willing to listen to her protégé. Miss Granger has come over to stand closer to him, by his bedside, still protectively positioned between himself and her favourite Professor. Forty-eight hours ago, he'd have considered it an impossibility. 

She can feel his surprise clearly through their bond. It only serves to spur her on. He shouldn't be _surprised_ she's defending him. This is only his _due_. If anything, that just makes her angrier at Professor McGonagall and the entire situation. He shouldn't be _attacked_ for this, and he definitely shouldn't be surprised when someone comes to his defence. The fact he _is_ tells her _so much_. 

"That's as may be, but you're undoubtedly overwhelmed by what happened and feeling grateful, and those are hardly the ideal circumstances and _certainly_ not a _justification_ for him _taking advantage_ of you in this way. It's all the more reason _not_ to." Severus' face is immobile, a mask. His thoughts are a different matter, and Hermione feels the words land on him like a blow. It stokes her anger. 

" _Not at all_ , Professor. You've got that backwards. _He_ tried to talk me out of it. _I'm_ the one taking advantage of _him_ as far as I'm concerned. _He's_ providing me with an extra measure of _safety_. This isn't for _his_ benefit. What do you think _he's_ getting out of it?" 

He's explained it to her, _very_ clearly. He's trying to decide if this is just about pushing back against Minerva, or if Miss Granger still isn't entirely convinced by his reasons. He's not sure, but he feels her... _conviction_. What he can't determine is if she believes the _truth_ of what she's saying, or simply that it is _right_ to have done so. 

Minerva shouldn't like to _begin_ to imagine what he might be 'getting out of it'. It's _far_ too... disturbing. Naturally, she'd find his _actual_ reasons even _more_ disturbing, but that's just typical of the Order members and their long established habits of avoiding the harsh realities. The vast majority of them have been steadfastly ignoring the facts of the war they're fighting, apparently with blinders on. 

"It's misplaced _gratitude_ , my dear. _Severely_ misplaced..."

"And even if it were, Professor," the little witch interrupts her Head of House, "that is _my_ decision and the deed is _done_ and not up for discussion." Minerva's face clouds and when she opens her mouth to object, Miss Granger cuts her off. "He _saved_ me," she repeats. "It nearly _killed_ him, but he did it all the same." 

"You've clearly _grossly_ misjudged the severity of his wounds..." her hand lifts to indicate her quite evidently at least _reasonably_ healthy colleague, whom she insists on continuing to discuss as though he weren't present or any more than a visual aid for her to make her point. Injured, no doubt. But near death? Hardly. She hadn't thought Miss Granger so given to hyberbole. 

Severus can feel Miss Granger's outrage at that. 

"It's down to pure luck, his _strength_ , and Madam Pomfrey's considerable _skill_ that he _survived_ it, and yet he didn't hesitate. Never for a moment. And for his pains, he gets stuck _bonded_ to me. This wasn't _his_ idea. He didn't _want_ this. He hasn't done anything... _untoward_." Her voice lowers as she says that, and she actually blushes. It's amusing, but also an uncomfortable reminder of how young she is. He could gladly throttle Albus at the moment. "And as _thanks_ , his colleagues _berate_ him." _Her_ hand now sweeps up in a simultaneously demonstrative and dismissive gesture towards Minerva. "If he had given it any thought, he should have let me _die_." 

His eyes tick instantly to her face as she says that. As he told her, he's really not at all certain her life was ever in danger per se. In fact, he was fairly convinced it _wasn't_ , and she knows this. He's not sure if this is another tactic, laying things on a bit thick to convince Minerva, or because the young woman is less comfortable discussing the realities of the other night. Or simply not permitted to... Curse Albus. The bond tells him she's doesn't feel manipulative, and damn, that will take getting used to. So probably the latter. 

And then he's struck by an intense wave of feeling across their bond. There's humiliation and shame and embarrassment and frustration and... self-loathing. He's all too familiar with the last. At first he's inclined to think all of that comes from her having been tied to _him_ , of all people, and then he teases a certain sense out of the mess and realises she believes the truth of her words, he'd have been better off leaving her to her fate, and she _hates_ with a blinding passion what she feels _she_ has cost _him_. It's a far cry from his initial assessment of her feelings. He assumed she loathed him and hadn't cared to look at it more closely under the circumstances. This... _this_ makes him feel... oddly _protective_.

"There was never any question of that." His voice is just a bit gruff, but certain. There's no room for doubt. She's staring at the floor, and he realises that she is fighting back the tears. He hesitantly reaches for her hand and as her fingers fold somewhat nervously around his, he gives her what he hopes is a reassuring squeeze. "Never." His voice is softer now, and she manages to tear her gaze up off the floor and meet his. 

Using their joined hands, he nudges her gently towards the chair... _her_ chair beside his bed, and she tentatively takes a seat. "And it most certainly wouldn't have been a _preferable_ result." And suddenly she's clutching his hand in both of hers like it's a lifeline, and in some senses, he understands that it is. He can feel the relief across the bond, and he's sure she can tell he's being sincere just as he could with her before. Perhaps it makes him foolhardy, but it has him trying something he'd never have dared otherwise. He raises an eyebrow and in his typically disapproving manner drawls, "Do think before you speak." 

Minerva is about to protest _most_ indignantly at that comment, even she can recognise how close the girl was to crying, when she sees something quite remarkable. The corner of Severus' mouth raises slightly, only ever so slightly, in a smirk, and Miss Granger breaks into the broadest smile imaginable and begins to laugh. And then Severus actually smiles. She's floored to realise that the two of them just seem to have shared a _joke_. That Severus was able to _reassure_ the girl where she herself had virtually brought her to the brink of tears, and he, however improbably, had _comforted_ her... 

When Miss Granger smirks and rather cheekily answers, "What kind of Gryffindor would I be were I to do that?" and Severus actually _laughs_ , well, her shock is complete. It's not a full bodied laugh, although his current condition might not have allowed for that. The comment probably didn't warrant it in any event. (Minerva isn't actually sure it was amusing in the _least_.) But. This speaks to a camaraderie she wouldn't have thought possible between the two, and she finds it somehow reassuring. It also raises some entirely different questions for her. 

"I'm afraid I had the wrong picture entirely. I apologise, Severus, Miss Gran... Madam Snape." He has a hard time fighting back his smirk at that, and the look that the young witch at his side shoots him tells him she is well aware of that fact. He gives her another one of his nearly invisible smirks as Minerva continues. "Albus wasn't particularly clear about what transpired..."

Miss Granger, still holding his hand, has tensed visibly at that. The bond discloses the rest. It would undoubtedly be difficult enough for her to speak of the assault, but Dumbledore's gag order will certainly have made that far worse. But if _she_ can't, _he will_.

  



	34. 11 09o Sunday - The Gospel According to Albus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Severus, Minerva, Hermione, Albus, Poppy_

_Minerva continues, "Albus wasn't particularly clear about what transpired..."_

_Miss Granger, still holding his hand, has tensed visibly at that. The bond discloses the rest. It would undoubtedly be difficult enough for her to speak of the assault, but Dumbledore's gag order will certainly have made that far worse. But if_ she _can't,_ he will.

He turns to her and gently asks, "Were you finished speaking to the Headmaster?" When she shakes her head, he _knew_ they weren't by the way she had come blazing in there, he suggests, "Why don't you go finish your conversation with him, and meanwhile Minerva and I will have a chat." 

Miss Granger actually indicates her Head anxiously with her eyes, it's hardly subtle, silently enquiring of him if he feels the trouble with her is truly passed. Severus bites back a huff of laughter. "I believe things are a little clearer now. Wouldn't you agree, Minerva?"

"I _am_ sorry, Miss... Madam Snape. Why don't you follow his suggestion? I promise I won't leap to further conclusions in your absence." Minerva joins in encouraging Miss Granger to leave them to speak. Severus highly doubts that's a promise Minerva can keep, but there's little to be gained saying as much. 

With a last look at Severus for confirmation, which he meets with a nod and another squeeze of her hand, Miss Granger rises from her seat again and with a patently ridiculous, "Fine, if you're _sure_. Call for me if you need me," leaves to return to Albus. Severus honestly doesn't know what's more absurd, the idea of _needing_ her, or the fact that he apparently wouldn't need to call if he _did_ , as her presence earlier had more than proven.

At Severus' invitation, Minerva avails herself of Miss Granger's... Madam Snape's now empty chair and he begins to fill her in on the events of Friday, the gospel according to Albus. The general facts remain the same, save the identities of the assailants; those are simply withheld. To simplify the narrative, the events of the evening at the Manor and in the castle are conflated, and it's... _suggested_ that all his injuries were sustained at Hogwarts. It's certainly true enough to say they had been at the hands of the Death Eaters. If she misinterprets where those Death Eaters were located at the time of the attack... 

Her first thought is idiotic. "I _do_ wish you had told me this before. I gave Irma quite the lambasting. That was all so _terribly_ unnecessary..."

Severus has no idea how to respond to that. He hasn't the foggiest why she would blame _Irma_ for _anything_ , nor how he could have kept Minerva from doing so while _comatose_. He's not sure he could keep her from flying off while _conscious_ , for Merlin's sake. It takes a moment of thought to even find words. 

"Should I have done so while in coma, Minerva? You are aware I only regained consciousness late this morning? That I've spent _all_ of the ensuing time in _this room_? _Much_ of it asleep for that matter? And why on earth did you think _Irma_ had anything to do with the attack?"

"Oh. I... Poppy said... Albus..." Severus' eyebrow quirks at the mention of the Headmaster, and Minerva realises therein undoubtedly lies the explanation. "I'm afraid I didn't quite understand what had transpired," she admits.

"So I gathered when you came storming in here. In the future I'll simply try to regain consciousness a little more quickly, shall I?" Her cheeks gain a spot of colour at that. "But may I suggest getting the _facts_ of things first before casting blame?" His look is wry. She just looks a bit put out, and her lips purse in response. 

She blinks twice and tries for a more promising avenue of enquiry, "How did they gain access?" Her concern is perfectly reasonable. Albus had only said the threat was 'neutralised'; he had specified neither the _means_ of that threat nor _how_ it was neutralised. 

The answer, of course, is they're _students_ and can come and go more as less as they please. The majority hadn't planned or even considered action, were now Obliviated and highly unlikely to start something again of their own volition. The only one who actually _had_ meant to attack Miss Granger, although even that was without malice aforethought and of lesser _intended_ severity than the eventual outcome, is in fact about to find himself thoroughly.... _neutralised_. Obviously, Severus can't tell Minerva as much. 

"There was an oversight. A potential threat went unrecognised, and an... opportunity was exploited." More or less true enough. 

That still doesn't even remotely begin to answer her question, but Minerva has been at this game for quite some time. She knows the rules. She has never learned to Occlude, her thoughts aren't safe from prying minds, and as such, there are some things she understands she'll _never_ be privy to. 

Truthfully, on some level it _does_ bother her a little that Albus takes Severus more into his confidence than herself. She misses completely that her utter unwillingness to acknowledge certain ugly truths means Albus couldn't _usefully_ consult her if he _wanted to_ on many topics. However, she _does_ realise part of the reason the information flows as it does is because _Severus_ is the _source_ of much of it to begin with, and she certainly doesn't envy him his job. As a spy, he knows a great many things she does not and shouldn't care to. In fact, it's less a question of _Albus_ sharing with Severus instead of her, and more _Severus_ reporting to Albus, and Minerva never being let into the loop. 

She assumes this is one of those things she isn't meant to know, and so she concentrates on the important issues. 

"Can it happen again?" Merlin, he hopes not.

"I mean to see that it doesn't," he answers truthfully enough. 

"Are you able you to _do_ that? Given your position?"

"I am _convinced_ that I can. This _will not_ happen again."

"Is that only true for Miss... Madam Snape, in view of the Protection Vow, or will the other students be safe as well?"

"Really, Minerva?" She has the grace to blush slightly once more, but the point is too important for her _not_ to seek clarification. Severus is a little annoyed at the suggestion _he'd_ be less concerned with the general student welfare than _she_ would. His feeling is their histories prove quite the opposite is true. If one disregards House points, naturally. Nevertheless, she lifts her chin somewhat defiantly and he answers, "I mean to see that _all_ the students are protected. But the others were far less likely to have been targeted."

She has trouble fully grasping the truth of that statement. He means to see that she does. She prefers to believe the threat comes solely from blood status, or possibly Miss Granger's friendship with Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Be-a-Terrific-Pain-in-His-Arse. Contributing factors, beyond a doubt, but it doesn't come close to reflecting the issues at the heart of things. 

To help her understand the root of the problem, he has insisted that the 'story' evince the _actual_ motive. It was a small but important victory, and one he had to fight Albus tooth and nail for. He still can't believe he won. Of course, he's also now irrevocably bonded against his better judgment, so he probably shouldn't get too full of himself for that comparatively minor win. 

Minerva has helped contribute to the problems underlying the attack, and Severus feels certain the situation will only become worse unless she recognises that fact and changes her conduct accordingly. There can be no more turning of blind eyes to the harmful behaviours she has thus far condoned, if not encouraged. At least not on the previous scale. _She's_ had options where _his_ hands were tied; it galls him that she often didn't make use of them. 

Initially, she's stubbornly unwilling to accept that this could have been an act of revenge for the injuries and slights to the Malfoy heir. He assures her, it was the stated motive. She can't believe it's true. He tells her Legilimency confirmed the truth of that claim. She feels sure it must be an exaggeration on his part. He begins mentally itemising potions ingredients; it helps, a little. 

She seriously underestimates the damage done, both last year and last week, and if she were to accept the motive, it would also mean accepting her role in this. She's quite comfortable in her denial. It's then that Severus decides he'll have to share a few memories with her if he wishes to convince her. 

He's not the least bit pleased at having to do so. 

Legilimency can also be used to impart memories, and the first thing he does is show her once and for all just how grievously her precious Potter had wounded Draco last year. It's one thing to hear about it; it's another altogether to see the bloodbath in all its gory horror. Her face loses all colour at the sight. Good. Next he affixes a memory of Weasley writhing on the dance floor from the week before. Juxtaposed, even Minerva can't deny the relationship between the incidents. Fitting. Not even the boys denied them. On the contrary, Weasley had employed a _Marquee Charm_ to effectively proclaim it. 

Unlike memories viewed in a Pensieve, which are objectively honest, memories shared via Legilimency can be edited in focus. And so he does just that. He grudgingly follows both of those memories with a series of images, they're scarcely more than a series of pictures from Friday night. First, Miss Granger in that chair, just as she was when he entered that room, cropped in focus so there's only her and none of the boys visible. Again Minerva is forced to recognise the similarities to the attack on Malfoy, and inescapably to Weasley's costume of questionable taste. 

Next, there's the moment when the blood crashed down on Miss Granger. Still tightly focussed on her, it captures the terror on her face perfectly. There's another, wider shot of the room after all the boys had left. She's still in the chair, now covered with his cloak, a chivalrous gesture that speaks to something in Minerva, and while Miss Granger's no longer covered in blood, it's still splashed liberally all over the room. Minerva gets a very real idea of what it might have been like to find her there as was originally conceived. 

He keeps the memories incredibly brief, so Minerva doesn't get an impression of the effects of the potion. As far as _he's_ concerned, _that_ will remain strictly between him and Miss Granger. He's incensed enough at having to share _these_ images of her with his colleague, and he fervently wishes he'd never have to share them again, although he knows all too well that he _will_. But if it's left to him, _no one else_ will ever see what the potion did to her. If _he_ can help it, no one else will _ever_ see her in that state. 

For a brief moment, he interrogates his motives. He's curious if the Protection Vow might somehow be making him less willing to share those images. He finds the thought... concerning. On consideration he decides he'd been loath to leave the boys with those memories Friday night as well, and that on balance, there's no change. No, it's not the Vow. And then it occurs to him that he _is_ in fact less willing to share the image of his... _wife_ in such a state. He tells himself it merely offends his sense of propriety, but he finds the thought... disquieting. He doesn't even register his thumb rubbing the threadlike ring on his left hand. 

Some things he can't relate via memories without risking exposing the truth. And so he explains that after driving off her attackers, he was no longer in any shape to free her magically, and Minerva sees a memory of him sawing at her bonds, the one that's haunted his dreams ever since. He judiciously chooses the memory of freeing her _first_ wrist, before she was able to begin toying with his hair and caressing his face. He swallows at the thought and then supplies another of him staggering with the witch in his arms to the Infirmary... Minerva can clearly feel his exhaustion, worry, outrage and his _pain_ in those memories. She honestly can't fault his actions and feels genuinely repentant for her response before. Small favours. 

Having secured that beachhead, he repeats the voiced reasons for the attack. This time, finally, Minerva is willing to believe him. But he can't stop there. She needs to understand the extent of the threat, its nature, and so he reluctantly explains that that Miss Granger had been administered Liquid Lust, the general effects of such a potion, and what he believes would have happened next. That Legilimency had borne out, at least one sexual assault was all but guaranteed. A second highly likely. And he can't reliably exclude more. 

Minerva is just as reluctant to believe it as he is to tell it, but this time she doesn't doubt _for an instant_ that what he says is true. She can't hold back a sob. She presses her knuckles to her mouth to repress more, and the tears come, silently trickling down her cheeks. 

They sit like that until Minerva regains her voice. "Why didn't she come speak to me?"

"Minerva, I frankly don't think she's _willing_ to speak of it yet. And that's _despite_ a steady supply of Calming Draughts. But you should know Albus apparently placed her under an Oath to not speak of the attack for the weekend while he... solved the problem and determined how to handle it. I gather he didn't want to spread panic in the school." 

"No, no of course not. We couldn't have that. It wouldn't have helped anyone." Severus just swallows his retort. _No, of course not. We couldn't have that..._ Albus is a malignant _arse_ of the first order. He'll never understand how everyone seems willing to so blithely overlook that. 

His lips meet in a thin line as he sublimates his frustration. Hoping she might get a bit of a clue, he proceeds, "Presumably, he's also protecting the _Order's interests_. But if you wish to know more of _his_ reasoning, you _will_ have to ask _him_. I can't speak for him, and have no wish to."

"And the solution to the... problem is _bonding_?" Her disbelief is abundantly clear in the question. 

" _He_ seems to think it is." 

"But how many can that protect?"

"Currently, three Muggle-borns, always assuming it actually provides _any_ measure of protection at all." It's not that either of them feel those three aren't _worth_ protecting, well... by and large, but the method, even if it _were_ effective, seems exceedingly... costly with far too little return. It's not a particularly practicable solution. 

"If you're that unconvinced, how could you _do_ this?"

"Albus was quite sure." 

"Oh, Severus." Her hand is back, covering the lower half of her face, a subconscious gesture illustrating all things things she's trying to keep from saying. She keeps shaking her head as she thinks about the situation. 

Her thoughts circle back to the the attack that precipitated this. "Why won't you say who was involved, Severus?"

"Albus doesn't wish it revealed. Don't ask, Minerva. I have no desire to lie to you, but I _will_ respect Albus' wishes in this. I can't even say I disagree with his position, all considered."

"It was his father!" She exclaims, suddenly certain. No, Minerva doesn't jump to conclusions, when does she ever? Her meaning isn't entirely clear, but Severus is quite positive, none of the parties involved are fathers. He simply cocks an eyebrow and waits for her to explain. "Mr. Malfoy's father. Mr. Malfoy." 

Severus swallows his smirk, it's not appropriate. But sometimes Minerva's sense of correctness gets in the way of... _sense_. Case in point, that was as clear as mud, she's taught them both and knows their names more than well enough, and she's sparred with Lucius in the ensuing twenty odd years on a first name basis on more than one occasion. Severus takes it as a sign that she's quite flustered by everything. 

"I can guarantee you, Lucius was _not_ involved, but that is also the last word I will say on the matter. I'll not help you guess your way to a result. It's probably also best if you don't give rise to unsubstantiated rumours or speculation. That really _will_ only make things worse, which is a _substantial_ part of how we arrived here in the first place. Again, Minerva, if you want more information, ask _Albus_."

Both of them know that will prove fruitless, which is why she's still here haggling with him for details. Albus has no compunction about lying to her; he'll do it with a smile and offer her a sherbet. She's still here because Severus _doesn't_ enjoy lying to her, and she thinks she can exploit that weakness to press an advantage. But she won't be any more successful. 

Recognising that, she abandons her questions and attends to one of her duties as a Head of House. "Have... have Madam Snape's parents been informed of the developments? Shall I contact them for you?"

"I _did_ think to ask, Minerva. I wouldn't have proceeded without doing so," the reproach in his voice is clear.

"No, naturally, I didn't mean to suggest..." _Of course_ she didn't, only she just _had_. 

"So you are unaware of their circumstances?" He asks innocently. He _assumes_ she is based on what Miss Granger had told him, but he prefers this approach. It would be nice to regain some ground of his own.

"Their circumstances? I don't follow?"

"Why, she sent them into hiding. Indefinitely." 

"She's completely on her own?" Minerva sounds scandalised.

He nods in grim agreement, further explaining, "There's no contact whatsoever, and she has no means at all to reach them." 

"But..." She has many objections to that, but none seem to be particularly coherent. 

His lips press together again into a very visible disapproving line and he deliberately nods his agreement demonstratively to _whatever_ objection she can't seem to articulate. He didn't find the situation or the little witch's isolation good either, no matter what role she'd played in it herself. The Order had let her down across the board, and no one seems to have even _noticed_. He had thought she was well regarded. This... And now he's sitting there shaking his head. It isn't even theatre. 

"Yes, she felt she was left with no choice when the Order failed to provide for them in light of the Muggle hunts taking place last summer." Again, all near enough the truth. 

Minerva's eyes widen in horror at the realisation. "When we arranged for Potter's Dursleys... We never..."

"No. Apparently _no arrangements whatsoever_ were made for the Grangers. It wasn't deemed _important_ enough, or no one _cared_ enough to do so. _She_ had to make her own." Minerva can't help noting how angry he sounds at the thought, that perhaps they _hadn't_ cared enough. Oddly, that leaves her with a slightly better feeling about what's happening here, and their bonding, even if she knows he would argue against it. 

"Oh, the poor girl." Minerva's hand claps back over her mouth.

"She's a _very_ resilient young woman. She's been dealing with that fact _on her own_ for _months_ now," Severus points out. Again Minerva blanches. "It gives me hope that she has the wherewithal to recover well from Friday's events."

"Merlin. If she needs anything... If I can _do_ anything, you'll let me know, Severus?" He nods. This time it's a little stiff. He seems to have a more difficulty dealing with people once they finally come round. As long as it was strictly antagonistic, he'd had no problems. Neither of them particularly notices it, possibly because it is exactly what they both expect.  
  


There's a knock at the door, and again the knocker doesn't wait for an invitation to enter but bustles in. Severus knows the moment the doorknob turns that it'll be Albus, who arrives in a cloud of seemingly benevolent smiles, twinkling eyes and bobbing nods. 

"Ah, Minerva," he croons, "I hoped I'd find you here." Of course she was there, and _naturally_ the man knew it. Severus wonders how any of them muster the patience to pretend a word the old windbag says is honest. "Poppy still needs to attend to Severus, what say you come with me and we leave them to it? I imagine you still have questions as to the arrangements in the tower..."

And with a farewell and last request that he contact her if she can be of help, Minerva takes her leave with Albus and Poppy putters in, an assortment of things in tow that she means to subject him to as long as she still can.  
  


"Why don't you get dressed," Poppy suggests as she finishes and turns to leave. "And I'll send in Madam Snape." It's only as she continues, "She's waiting in my office, and I imagine you'll want to sort your chambers before the hour gets too late," that he realises he's been putting off the inevitable. He'd almost completely forgotten about it. 

He must have nodded, stupidly, because once Poppy leaves, and he's attired once again in his dress robes, Miss Granger soon appears at his door. "Are you ready then, Sir?" Again, he seems to be dumbly nodding and she magics open his wardrobe and inexplicably summons forth a fair number of things apparently _of her own_ \- he wasn't aware they were _sharing_ \- which she quickly shrinks to a manageable size, waiting for him to follow suit. It seems some of his clothes survived Friday's adventures after all. 

He shrinks the lot without comment and tucks it into his pocket. Bizarrely, Miss Granger then summons her bouquet from the vase on the nightstand, he couldn't begin to explain why, and turns to him with a surprisingly brave smile, "Shall we then?"

All he can do is nod and say, "Follow me," as though she hadn't been to the dungeons and back several times a week for the last six years...

  



	35. 11 09p Sunday - Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Severus and Hermione ___

She doesn't mean to, he slows his pace enough that she can easily keep up, but she finds herself trailing _just a little_ behind him. Not walking at his side, but just that _bit_ behind, bobbing in his wake, in the lee of his cloak. When he slows so she can catch up, she slows and the distance remains constant. She can't explain why she does it, it's too ingrained in some fashion, but that reflexive action of hers just sets him more on edge. As far as he can tell, _nothing_ about this is right. 

She isn't and will never be a partner or an equal.  
  


And so he escorts her to his, their, rooms, as though she hasn't taken this path hundreds of times over the last several years; it all seems new somehow. What _is_ objectively new to her is the location of his chambers. A door she's never noticed before, although it's magnificently carved and hard to miss, appears to her left in the wall shortly before they reach his office, his classroom is still further down the same hall. She assumes the door to his quarters was hidden by a Notice-Me-Not from non-Slytherins. 

She can feel his wards ripple around them as they approach, and he tells her to extend her wand.

"Sir?"

"I need to key the wards to permit you access. Raise your wand, please." And she does, and the ripple on her skin is... It's _lovely_ actually. It's warm and safe and strong, it's comfort and _home_ and welcome, it's come in and stay and never want to leave, it's a lazy Sunday in bed with a great book and a hot cuppa, it's... _perfect_ and if it could be bottled would make a bath additive people might pay a small fortune for. It's _amazing_. 

She tries not to sigh too plaintively as the feeling passes, but can't restrain a soft, "Wow."

That amuses him, which only serves to annoy him further; he isn't in any mood to be amused. He hadn't expected a reaction. And certainly not _that_ one. These are _his_ wards, protecting _his_ home. They've never been breached. They're a thing of his own making, essentially... _him_. He hasn't the foggiest how it might feel to someone else. He's also never adjusted them for anyone else. 

Had he considered it, he might have been reluctant to hear her response. Were he considering it _now_ , he might take this as a good sign. Unfortunately, his thoughts are already too preoccupied with all the miserable changes he'll need to make to his quarters to see the positive in any of this.

A little hopefully, she asks him, "Does it do that every time, or is it just when they're keyed?" 

He has a brief image of her standing in his, their, doorway forever more were that the case, which is almost _exactly_ the thing she's thinking, too. He has to admit he doesn't know. She resolves to herself to test it, just as he makes a note to observe her reaction in the future. 

Once the door is open, she's surprised to find she can't see into the chambers beyond. He passes through the doorway, takes two steps into the room and disappears from sight. She remains standing there, rooted to the spot. Soon he reappears in the doorway, and she realises it's another sort of Notice-Me-Not applied to give the room privacy should anyone come calling. And that's even though the door apparently couldn't be seen by those who aren't in his House. 

He's a _very_ private person, she realises, and she's about to intrude in a most unforgiveable fashion. She can't seem to bring herself to cross the sill. 

"Well? What are you waiting for?" He asks. When she doesn't respond, she can't find the words, he becomes somewhat gruff, "I'm not carrying you across the threshold." She blinks a little, taken aback at that, she'd never even considered it, and then he completely botches an explanation, grumping somewhat petulantly, "I've carried you quite far enough for the present." That really doesn't have _anything_ like the effect he'd hoped. It would certainly have helped had he modulated his tone even a bit, and off the hurt in her expression he feels the need to add, "I'm hardly in any shape to do so." 

And then in some weird compromise that neither was seeking or fully understands, he flicks his wand and has Mobilicorpused her in a bridal carry and swooped her into his, their, rooms. "Sorted," he mumbles, closing the door firmly behind her as her feet settle gently on the floor. She's intrigued to note before the door shuts that she can see the hallway _very_ clearly from this side of the Notice-Me-Not, almost as though the entry were far wider than it actually is. She assumes it's another protective measure. 

And then she turns to face the room. 

It's _stunning_.

* * *

  


It's _enormous_ , or perhaps that comes from sharing rooms with so many others for so long, but she's never lived in a space of this size before. It's a long, largely open plan room, with a few steps to provide changes in levels that lend the room some structure and keep it from being uncomfortably sprawling. 

The colours and textures are simple, elegant and harmonious. The leather, of which there is much, is a deep green, perhaps not unexpectedly, and when she touches it later, she'll discover it's the softest she's ever felt. When she works up the courage to ask, he'll explain it's dragonhide. The wood, also in abundance, is dark, perhaps macassar, the grain is too lively for anything else that comes to mind. It's _gorgeous_. Absolutely _beautiful_. The furniture all seems to be of one matching design; it's exquisitely carved. Two of the walls are the light beige stone of the castle, one, the furthest, is a wall of bookcases. The fourth, to their left, is... something else altogether. 

To the left of the entrance is an L-shaped kitchen complete with an island with a _breakfast bar_ she's having a lot of trouble picturing him using. She'll keep that thought to herself. There are no upper cabinets, just some open shelves immediately to the left of the door. The other leg of the L is comprised only of lower cabinetry. It makes the space seem even more open. 

The most unusual feature of the room is what's been done instead of a backsplash. In place of the usual tiles, there's a wall of black glass above the countertop. This extends beyond the kitchen, all along the same wall, so that the entire upper half of that wall is made of that glass. The effect is a strange mix of medieval meets modern with the stonework trim framing the glass. It's masculine but beautiful, a little brutal, definitely uncompromising, but _very_ appealing. She likes it instantly. Only much later will it occur to her that it reminds her somehow of _him_.

To the right of the entry is a divinely carved rectangular dining table of that marvellous wood. It's simply stunning. The tabletop alone is practically an artwork. She immediately wants to run her hands over that polished surface. Eight chairs surround it, three on each side, one on each end, but again she can't quite picture him entertaining. It's a _magnificent_ piece that looks more like it's there because it _should be_ in order to fill the space than because he wants or uses it. But she has no idea if that's correct or simply a failure of imagination on her part. 

Beyond the kitchen, along what she considers the feature wall, two steps lead up into what seems to be an oft used reading nook judging by the soft signs of wear. A long wooden built-in bench with green leather cushions occupies the lower half of the wall, just as the cabinets do in the kitchen area. In front of the bench are two comfortable looking wing chairs with matching footstools and a small table between them. A book lies propped open across one of their arms, and she can imagine it's where the Professor left it Friday before so much in their lives changed forever. She manages, barely, to keep herself from trying to sneak a peek at the title. 

The far wall is covered entirely in bookcases, except for three doors that are set into the structure. They lead off the larger lounge area in the back right hand corner of the room. The lounge is across from the reading nook and three steps down from it, or beyond the dining area and one step down. A leather couch runs much of its length, flanked on either end by side tables in the same style as the one in the nook, and there's a matching armchair against the furthest wall. 

The seating arrangement is nestled in front of a grand stone fireplace in the long right wall that remains in the exposed castle stone. Along that same wall, in what is the dining area just to her right, are two more doors, closed like the other three. The enormous hearth, she thinks, should be plenty large enough to heat the generous room; it's certainly warm enough now. She wonders briefly about that, the room's warmth. She knows better than anyone else he hadn't been there all weekend to keep a fire burning. 

The second most unexpected feature of the rooms would have to be the hits of colour. The kitchen has a few accent items in the warmest yellow, a vase, some plates on the open shelves, a ceramic fruit bowl with apples and oranges. The reading nook has similar accents in the richest red jewel tone, a throw and a couple of pillows. In the lounge it's a deep, dark blue for the throw draped over the back of the sofa and again a few pillows. There's an oriental area rug in front of the fireplace held in matching green, red and blue tones. And in the dining area situated between the two doors is a work of abstract art, a truly stand out piece, the only painting in the room, predominantly in those very same colours plus hints of the kitchen's yellow. The scheme's far more vibrant than she would have anticipated, and yet it's restrained. 

It's beautiful. It's exactly and yet not at all what she'd have expected from him. She's never seen anything like it, and she likes it very much.  
  


And then he strides into the room and sets about destroying it.

* * *

  


He walks purposefully between the kitchen island and the dining area, takes the step down to the lounge area and follows along the back of the couch until he reaches the far wall covered in bookcases and turns right into the lounge. He crosses grimly to the door furthest to the right and flicks his wand to open it, revealing a perfectly _lovely_ room. It's very masculine in its decor, but she thinks not so much so that she wouldn't have enjoyed it immensely. It's full of more of the same dark wood, carved to match the pieces in the lounge, nook and dining room. 

There's an exquisite desk, handsomely carved, that just cries out to be touched, for her fingers to trace the intricate work... It's diagonally orientated in the room facing the door, and equipped with a matching chair in green leather upholstery that looks ridiculously comfy. Absolutely _sumptuous_. From what she can see past him as she's drawn further into the chambers, the room's walls are completely covered in more of those bookcases, oddly except for another sheet of black glass along the upper half of the back wall. The shelves look like they're brimming with things she'd _love_ to get her hands on. She thinks the bookcases are probably what make the room, it must be his study, seem so much more masculine than the rest of the apartment. It's definitely darker and cosier as a result. 

It's a magnificent room. 

Or was.  
  


With a sigh he can't suppress, not in the face of _this_ , he flicks his wand again and bookcases start trudging from the room on diminutive claw feet to line up against the right hand wall of the lounge and dining area. They slouch their way past him through the door and slink forlornly up the solitary step, somehow without losing a single book, to continue lining the wall, the half-height shelves slotting into place beneath the artwork. When they've filled the wall, they turn the corner and begin lining the one behind her that holds the door through which she just entered. The shelves only stop when they reach the kitchen. Another few flicks, and the couch and dining table slide further into the room, making more space along the wall for access to the bookcases.

One of the chairs from the reading nook marches over to join the couch and chair that are already there. The footstools and end table are Reducioed and Banished to the nearest shelf. Soon the desk comes stomping out, apparently not quite pleased with this development, to fill the vacancies left in the nook, placing itself rather glumly in front of the only remaining chair. 

She wonders if the furniture itself is displeased with the rearrangements, or if it’s in some way a reflection of the feelings of the caster of the spells. She closes her eyes for a moment and tries to listen to their bond, but all she feels from him is a lot of nothing and a chaotic mess. It’s hard to discern any overriding voice in the chorus. 

A few more flicks, and he's enlarged the shelves where they now stand on the right hand wall, and transfigured them so there are now shelves above the two doors as well. Soon a stream of books floats out of the room and they align themselves neatly in the new spaces provided. He pauses the exodus only once to redirect a stream to higher shelves, other than that, he hardly seems to need to give it any thought. Peering into the room, she can see there are now only three steadily emptying shelves left, a carpet and the desk chair that sits somewhat gloomily without its desk. 

When the shelves finally empty, he takes a deep breath, centres himself, and prepares to make her room. 

She feels a harsh stab of guilt. _Now_ she's taken his den and made a hash of his library, and she's not even sure he should be doing this much magic this soon. 

To think she'd been sure he wouldn't allow her to come in and turn everything topsy-turvy... That's hardly sufficient to describe what's happening. She frankly had never dreamt just how much she would - _this_ would - upend his life.

The path he'd taken through the room no longer available, she takes a step down into the lounge area, passing in front of the couch to join him.

"I'm sorry, Sir." 

"Miss Granger?" 

"It was such a lovely room." He sighs again and tries not to think about it. 

“Indeed. It was rather.” She feels the void she sometimes senses from him deepen, expand, there’s nothing quite like it in her experience and she’s at a loss how else to describe it. There’s more... _nothing_ , somehow, if nothing could increase. He, however, appears more collected. It strikes her suddenly that he must be Occluding, and her feelings of guilt just increase. 

“Shall we agree, the less said about the matter, the better? And I'll do my best for you to see to it that it still is," he sounds resigned, but he's clearly making an effort. Right now she feels as though on top of everything else she's taken from him, she's now destroying his home. 

"Should you be using so much magic?" She asks cautiously. 

"'Needs must', a wise man recently said to me. I think it was only this afternoon..." He bites back the sigh that was already forming again, but the slouch of his shoulders really says it all, and of course, even with him Occluding, she can still feel some of his despair through the bond. "It's kind of you to be concerned, but I believe I'm sufficiently recovered for a bit of moving house." 

"I could help," she offers tentatively. 

"I'd prefer to rearrange my rooms..." there's a pained look as he corrects himself, "move my _things_ about on my own." He swallows and tries to sound as neutral as possible. "Obviously, you may... make adjustments to... _our_ rooms in the future if there is... need. Although I would... greatly _prefer_ it if you could keep it to a minimum or discuss such changes with me in advance." 

He looks around the main room, now a bit smaller, lined on two more sides with books as it is. She experiences a sudden surge of claustrophobia, which seems odd, as the room is so much larger than anything she's used to, until she realises the feeling was his. With a slight grimace, he recognises that his desk is now too large for the place it stands, and another wand flick shrinks it some until the proportions seem right. Visually, at least. He finds himself wondering if he will ever want to work there in the future. Damn. 

Turning his attention to the now nearly empty room that had been his study, he transfigures one of the remaining shelves into a desk, quite a bit like his own, somewhat more delicate, although the choice was subconscious. The desk gambols into place on the left wall, a number of steps in front of them, and the disgruntled chair seems slightly happier now as it slides in before it. 

Along the right wall, abutting the black glass on the far wall, he transfigures a second shelf into a four poster bed, the posts magnificently turned, just like the legs of the chair and desk, but with even more detail for all their size. It's a piece of great beauty, and she finds it hard to picture how he does that off the cuff as he did. Cream coloured curtains hang around the bed in a politely neutral selection, neither green nor red. She imagines she'll keep them that way, following his line of thought. The rug provides enough colour to brighten the space. 

The third shelf finds a home against the wall immediately to the right of the door, because the witch for whom the room is being made will undoubtedly have many books of her own. A few flicks more, and it expands, wandering around the corner of the room to meet the bed, and now also harbours a wardrobe. 

He steps back out of the room and opens the door immediately next to... hers, she supposes, and reveals a storeroom. He grits his teeth and sets about shrinking and expanding it, and she believes she's just watched him cast an extension charm on the room while shrinking its physical boundaries. It's a _fine_ piece of dynamic magic, and she only just refrains from asking him about it. 

When he re-enters... _her_ room and creates a door to the left of the entryway and gets to work, she realises he's making her a bath of her own. It's probably just as well, she thinks a bit nervously, as the number of closed doors had diminished, she'd come to suspect his bath must be off his bedroom. _That_ would have become awkward quickly. 

She knows, she can _feel_ how much he hates tearing apart his home, how little he wants to sacrifice his refuge, his privacy, and yet as he sets about creating this little room from nothing... The detail he puts into it is _gobsmacking_. 

There are dozens of choices, from the handles of the faucets, the shape of the basin, the colour of the ceramic and texture and size of the tiles, a recess for her shampoo and conditioner, a built in soap dish... And all of them are simply... beautiful. It's a _delightful_ little room, and every detail in it sprang from his mind, no matter how reluctant he might be to have her here. 

She can’t help the look of enjoyment that crosses her face, and somehow it sits wrong with him. “The bog,” he snits, irritated she’s chuffed while he’s demolishing his home. When her face falls in immediate response, he pulls himself together and manages a more polite, “I’m afraid it hasn’t a tub of its own, but at least you’ve your own shower. I believe that should prove sufficient to your needs. We can revisit that at some point in the future if not.”

He’s mercurial. One moment he’s politely reserved, the next irritated, waspish and a little crass, and the next stoic and withdrawn. Every now and again he strikes her simply as sad. She gets the sense his life isn’t pleasant, and she’s somehow making it a good deal less so. She wishes that weren’t the case. 

"Thank you, Sir. Very much." She wonders if it's wise to continue, but feels the need to express her gratitude. "It still is," she tries to assure him. When he just lifts a brow she expands, "It's a beautiful room." His lips press together and he bites back any answer, but he nods his head once in acknowledgment of her appreciation and withdraws to the lounge. 

He turns to face her as he stands in front of the fireplace and with a small shrug says, "The desk chair is very comfortable." When she tries it later, she's surprised to find just how true that is. And then she considers that _that_ is just another thing she's taken from him this weekend.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a house full of people this weekend, so probably no new chapter until Monday. - Ginger


	36. 11 09q Sunday - Fireside Chat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Severus and Hermione, Sunny, Crookshanks_

_He withdraws to the lounge and turns to face her as he stands in front of the fireplace._

"Join me, if you please? There are some things we need to discuss," he invites her, indicating the chair closest to... _her_ room with his outstretched hand. She turns to do just that, and then remembers the flowers, still clutched in her left hand. 

"Would you mind if I used your vase?" She asks, having noted one in the kitchen, lifting the arrangement a bit as if to demonstrate the purpose for the request were that somehow unclear. 

He blinks, twice, still puzzled both by the bouquet and her desire to keep it even a moment longer. Without comment, he thinks it's wisest, he Summons the vase which he is able to catch in a single one of his long-fingered hands and fills it with an Aguamenti before extending it to her. _She'll_ need two hands to grasp it properly, particularly now that it's full of water, so she places the flowers a little shyly into it before taking it from him, as though he had meant it to be a cooperative effort, while he stands there mutely holding it.

Her warm smile and soft, "Thank you," coupled with the inexplicable sincerity he can feel across the bond takes the wind out of the bluster he was about unleash in response to that presumption. She sets it down on the nearest end table, briefly adjusts the blooms individually to tidy the display, and then takes her seat, still smiling between him and the flowers. His brow furrowed, he sits in the chair opposite her, and soon becomes irritated with the chair as well. He preferred _his_. 

"Shall we sort your personal effects and... pet first?" He begins, a little tersely.

"Sunny _will_ be able to fetch Crooks, won't he?" It occurs to her she had simply _assumed_ and hadn't actually waited for confirmation earlier.

"If he doesn't mind Apparition." That _could_ pose a problem, she thinks. Her face apparently says as much. "You have a carrier?" He asks. She nods. "Then we'll have Sunny use it. I expect the problem comes _after_ the fact, and you'll have the privilege of talking... _Crooks_ round." He calls for the elf who appears almost immediately with a quiet 'pop' at his side. 

"Sunny, we have a couple of errands for you. And if I may have a word first?"

"Sir asks, Sunny does," the elf half chirps, his disposition as sunny as his name. "Sunny is happy to help Mistress and Master of Potions," he beams, looking back and forth between the two of them. Severus wonders if he's still trying to worm in the 'Mistress of Potions' title. House elves are capable of a good deal more subtlety than people tend to think. Merlin knows, they have their own agendas. Sunny steps a little closer to Severus' chair, and the Potions Master leans over and very softly exchanges a few words with the house elf before directing him to Hermione to get a list of the things she'll need for the week to come. 

She sits there anxiously trying to think of everything she could require, worried she might forget something. Later that strikes her as silly, because she could always send Sunny to fetch it if she _had_ forgotten something, but it seems the bit of thought pays off, and in the end, nothing was overlooked. It probably helps that she's a well organised person. 

While she's making her mental list, Severus draws his wand once more and makes a few adjustments to the door... _her_ door behind her. Soon the exterior has an ornately framed mirror covering almost the entire surface. Her first impression is he still feels the main room is now too small, and is trying to create the illusion of more space. She'll come to revise that opinion. But it looks nice and it's practical; the mirror in the bath wasn't floor length. It never occurs to her _that_ wasn't likely to be a consideration for him. _He_ feels perfectly capable of glancing _down_ if he wishes to see his feet.

Hermione's list complete, Sunny leaves just as quietly as he came, and Severus resumes speaking, "We need to establish a few guidelines." She's half expecting a cleaning rota, which is also silly, because Sunny no doubt manages that as well. 

"First and foremost, I need you to agree to keep me apprised of any problems _as they arise_ , and we need to address them in a timely manner. We can't afford to allow things to escalate and force the Protection Vow into play." So not cleaning then... This _will_ take getting used to. She nods, somewhat stupidly, she feels. 

"Next, we need to give some thought to how we'll handle your memories."

"My memories?" She thinks she may have actually squeaked. Since her Obliviations of her parents, that word's taken on new meaning for her. Just the mention makes her nervous. 

"As a spy for the Order _and_ the Death Eaters, my actions always need to make sense to both parties in light of the roles I play for each of them."

"Can that even work?"

"Not always," he answers truthfully, thinking of the latest instance just this past Friday, when his actions hadn't made... sufficient sense to certain parties and had precipitated a slew of Cruciati of the worst kind. Bellatrix is an absolute horror. "But until we have a better idea of how much safety the Loyalty Vow provides, I'll require your cooperation in making sure your memories provide some added... cover."

"What do you need me to do?" He likes that. It's simple enough. Here's hoping she means it. 

"Let's couch it in terms of a game, shall we? A bit of mental sport. The 'what if' game." It's lacking the light-heartedness the words might suggest, in fact he sounds just a little bitter, and she supposes his circumstances hardly permit anything else. But he knows his audience, and he's phrased it... optimally; he has her complete attention. 

"We have two options, I am either a loyal member of the Order or a Death Eater. Naturally, as far as you are concerned my loyalty is to the Order alone. Unbeknownst to you, of course, that is a bald-faced lie, and my loyalty is strictly to the Dark Lord and his forces. What we'll need to do is determine how we explain my actions today and in general in both of those contexts." They have a third and fourth option, he's neither or both, waiting to see who wins to declare his loyalty, but that's not really the point to this exercise, and it doesn't occur to her anyway. 

Nerves at thought of the possible risk _to him_ if the explanations aren't good enough war with the thrill of being asked to brainstorm _with him_... And then that immediately crashes to a halt. "But you'll have thought of that in advance. _Of course_ you have your reasons or you wouldn't have _acted_." 

_That_ earns her a wry smile of approval. "Correct, Miss Granger. I don't require you to make my excuses. We're both better off if you don't know my true reasons for acting, and quite probably not even the reasons I put forward and _claim_ as those true reasons by precisely the same logic. I need you to have an idea of why I _might_ have acted so that Legilimency performed on you doesn't leave me exposed." Mostly true. Well, _true_ , just... incomplete. 

"So what's that? A fourth or maybe fifth set of reasons?" She looks appalled. 

He laughs, but it's not quite a happy sound. "Close enough. More like a sixth and seventh, actually." Her head shifts in question and he explains ticking them off on his fingers as he goes, "The actual reason, one, the reason I tell each party, two, three, the reasons I give them that the other accepted it, four, five, not always remotely the same as the other two, and finally what you will come to believe is the truth for both of them. Six and seven."

"Well, that's not complicated at all," she snarks. 

"There _is_ some overlap," he offers modestly. 

"Merlin, I hope so." She stops to consider it. "So whose side are you on?" She smiles, hoping to signal that it isn't _really_ in question; she's merely playing along. 

"Both, of course. We'll need memories for Albus and the Dark Lord. You need to accept I will have to lie to you. Probably regularly." 

"Can you? Effectively?"

"Unfortunately, that remains to be seen." Albus' alterations to the Vows pose a very real problem. 

"Which one is stronger? The better Legilimens?"

"The Dark Lord is the more powerful Legilimens." That may or may not be true, but he _had_ just told her he'd be lying to her, not infrequently. It's certainly the _safest_ answer; Albus wouldn't care either way, and the Dark Lord would hear what he _wants_ to. "And even if he weren't, the very fact he is not held back by any desire to be... delicate would mean that he effectively is." He might even sell the memory as the beginnings of an attempt at recruitment at some point in the future. It's important to keep their options open. 

"So how do I know you aren't actually evil then?" She asks, but it's more cheek than anything else. 

"The only explanation for it is I am better than either of them," he drawls. She laughs, but then bites her lip entertaining the possibility of the truth of that statement. _Intriguing_. 

"Alright, so you want an explanation for both of them," her lip is back between her teeth as she nibbles it, this time weighing the pros and cons of various arguments. "Well, for both groups, I think it works to say this was something you did to prove your loyalty to the Order, as a sort of protection detail." 

He nods, she's encouraged and proceeds. "Probably also that it was some kind of penance or... I think Vol... You-Know-Who," she pauses fractionally to glance at him but he doesn't object at the name. Harry prefers for her to say 'Voldemort'. The Professor, she's noticed, seems to strongly disapprove of that. "He might be inclined to see it more as a punishment..." She glances at him tentatively, hoping he won't take it the wrong way, but he nods again. Merlin only knows, he'd wondered himself if it wasn't a punishment. He can't fault her logic. 

"Both groups would probably also accept that I was acting as a spy..."

"Unwittingly," he's quick to correct her. "If it were deliberate, it would make you more of a target," she nods her understanding. 

"Sorry, you'd indicated as much. I'll be sure to keep that in mind. So the nefarious Headmaster is taking advantage of my good nature and using me as his _unwitting_ spy then," she amends. He smirks his approval. There's a certain appeal to someone, _anyone_ , seeing Albus as anything other than a benign influence, not that he thinks she's serious, but still... It has a nice ring to it. And it doesn't hurt that it's another memory he could use were he ever to make a case for having tried to recruit her. 

She grins back a little and with a bit of cheek continues, "But naturally you're _every bit_ as nefarious, if not more so, and doing the same to use me to spy on Harry." He snorts softly at that. "You said as much yourself, earlier," she shoots him a wry smile in response. "Anyway, that's what you'll tell _them_. For the Order, obviously I am either a willing spy or spying is unnecessary, depending on whom you ask." He couldn't agree more, again nodding for her to keep going. 

"Your handling of the... situation meant Malfoy remains in school, by which you prove your loyalty to You-Know-Who, I suppose. Would he even care?" She looks at him, unsure, but he doesn't reply, so she continues instead, "Well, you helped all of Slytherin's male seventh years. That should be relevant. Both sides would accept that argument, and the Order would probably see it as a... tolerable sacrifice to maintain your good standing as a spy." She's sure of it, but it annoys her, just as the Professor had _told_ her it would only Friday night. 

"To the extent any of them are aware of the details, Miss Granger. I have little doubt few if any will learn the identities of the assailants."

"So just us and Professor Dumbledore then. Still, it's an argument he _would_ accept, that he _insisted_ upon, even, which means you can claim that's _why_ he did. And the Loyalty Vow keeps me from whinging about it, which means you've bought Malfoy an extra measure of protection in the process." There's something a little... off in her tone, and the feelings across the bond are... a mess. There's no trace left of the smile from a moment ago, just tension. 

"I didn't do _any_ of this to protect _him_ ," he tells her quietly. Definitely. There's no possible doubt. 

"No, I'm sorry, I _know_ you didn't. And I didn't mean to suggest you _had_ , merely that it makes a good explanation," she clearly believes what she's saying, but her tone is still subdued. 

"And it most definitely isn't 'whinging' to complain about any and all of the events of this weekend, Miss Granger. You've done nothing wrong, and you are very _decidedly_ the injured party here. You're entitled to find that... unpalatable." 

"I imagine that's true for both of us, isn't it?" She answers and then shakes it off. "Right, sorry, where were we? Whether or not the Order trusts you, they send you to work for You-Know-Who, and in that capacity you do things they don't... _like_ , but _sanction_." 

His face goes blank and she can feel him Occluding, but she doesn't stop, "So by saddling you with me, perhaps they'll have meant for me to keep you from becoming too... 'excessive' under the influence of or when operating with the Death Eaters." _He'd_ been the one to tell her of those... excesses, it's certainly not surprising that she knows. It's just a little... unexpected that she's using it _against_ him, and then he wonders why _that_ should surprise him. 

But she hasn't finished her thought, "Either to _help_ you refrain because they trust you and wish to provide support, or to inhibit... _curtail_ your actions, at least to some extent. It doesn't matter, either way, they arranged this so they in turn can keep their hands clean. Well, _cleaner_." 

And just like that, she can feel him stop Occluding as fiercely. He approves of her thinking. Heartily. He _likes_ that she isn't using her knowledge to paint him in a bad light and grasps that it means he has the Order's tacit support for the things he does. How often has he felt Albus had deliberately avoided the details of _how_ a thing he demanded was done, just as long as it _was_. 'Cleaner'. Hell, he bloody _loves_ that.

He's just contemplating telling her as much when a soft 'pop' announces Sunny's arrival, a loud 'Mrowr' that he's not alone. "Crooks!" She cries out, an odd mix of welcoming and scolding. _He_ simply hisses in reply. 

Sunny deposits the carrier at her side with a wary glance and a dubious sounding, "Mistress' beastie." 

The elf only just catches Severus' "If you'd take care of that task for me now..." nodding before fleeing the scene. He has the good sense to take the rest of her things directly into... _her_ room. If that hiss has even a _bit_ of intention behind it, Severus thinks it's probably a wise choice to be well shot of the lounge before the... animal is let loose. 

She bends over the box that seems to contain a very agitated mound of tatty fur, and chides, "Now, Crooks, don't be like that." Looking up to meet his eyes, she asks Severus, "Would it be alright if I let him out here? Or should I take him to... my room? He'll settle faster if he's not stuck in the crate," she tries to explain it. 

The Professor's face very clearly indicates that he can't begin to imagine freeing the 'monster' would be a good idea, and it... it amuses her. There's trepidation, readily apparent, and she's trying to decide if he's worried about his furnishings, his books, or the idea of having a mad half-Kneazle freed in close proximity. She manages to fight back her smile, but it doesn't help because the bond gives her away. Pet owners can be very presumptuous, he finds, and looks at her with some annoyance. 

"Does he know enough to behave?" He finally asks, his eyebrow rather obviously communicating his inability to believe the likelihood of it. But he can't imagine penning the creature in her room the whole time; it might be best to set the ground rules for... its behaviour now as well.

"He will," she assures him, giving the feline a meaningful look. "He's a very clever boy." She opens the carrier, and contrary to expectations, a wild animal does _not_ come darting out, but the little lion strolls rather purposefully from the crate as though it had all been his idea to begin with. When Miss Granger returns to her seat, he immediately leaps up and curls into her lap. 

Purring. 

It may well be the ugliest moggie Severus has ever laid eyes on, its face pancaked, as though flattened by a Bludger, often, and of course it reflects the young woman's unfortunate fondness of things ginger, but she positively beams at the creature as she pets it, and its purring becomes quite loud indeed.

Severus could swear it looks... smug. But perhaps securing that level of devotion despite his wanting looks and questionable temperament is something worth looking smug about. He wouldn't know. 

He's a little surprised when she picks up where they left off, "You were pressured into acting quickly," she worries her lip a little too harshly because she happens to believe the truth of what she's saying, "and probably couldn't contact them for... instructions... Can you? Would you even? Or would you just..." His eyebrow does that thing that makes her decide to abandon _that_ line of enquiry. 

"Well, whichever, your apparent lack of hesitation should help to maintain your cover with the Order, and you can argue that I'm... insignificant anyway," for a moment she sounds... small again, but then she lifts her chin a little and manages a cheerier, "So there should be no harm done in just ignoring me."

"Not bad, Miss Granger. That's a good assessment and very close to the truth." If he thought she was beaming before, she absolutely _glows_ now, and he can feel her satisfaction, her... pleasure through their bond. 

"Is it?" She asks, unable to contain her glee.

He just gives her a smirk in answer. It's softer than what he'd originally intended, probably tempered by her contentment, but it still gets its meaning across. It reminds her all too clearly that he'd said she _couldn't_ know his real motives for acting or even what he'd claim were his reasons, so even if she happens to be right, there's no way he'd tell her as much. 

She's wrong, naturally. 

He understands _exactly_ how to make her unsure, how to apply reverse psychology, and his life has depended on accurately judging and addressing the parties across from him for _years_ now. But she's still new to all of this. She'll catch on in time. Far less than he expects, in fact. 

She deflates visibly, both for apparently _not_ being right and for having fallen for the simple ploy. 

And then she surprises him again. "Do you _want_ me to distrust you?" He's not sure if that's just uncertainty, pique for his having tricked her, if she's intuited what he's doing, or if she understands the reasons for it, it's... advisability. 

"It would help," he answers frankly. 

"But I never have." He simply lifts his sceptical eyebrow, and she laughs. It's disarming. "Well, not since I knew you were working for the Order anyway. Why would I start now?" She just looks at him. He's honestly not sure what to answer. "I guess I'm having trouble understanding how the Loyalty Vow changes anything. I haven't previously _disrespected_ you and I don't _distrust_ you, and I certainly see no reason to change any of that, especially not _now_."

His lips are drawn in a very tight line and then one side curls up. "As you are _completely_ unable to Occlude, I'll take that as facetious, shall I? The primary benefit is a guarantee your thoughts, your memories couldn't betray me."

"But they'd _expect_ me to trust you," she objects, but that's only met with silence. 

It stretches for a minute as she considers it. "You really _do_ want me to question your motives." It's a statement, so she's beginning to understand. "But how can I? I didn't to begin with, and the bond, what it reveals..." Her hand lifts in a helpless gesture, but he takes her meaning. She's absolutely right, and he silently curses Albus again for his meddling. 

"But what good does doubting you do..." She mulls it over and suddenly realises something. "It's about the Order isn't it? You need the Loyalty Vow for protection against them, too."

"We _will_ need to work on that, Miss Granger. It's imperative. I need you to share _nothing_ about me with _anyone_." 

"But _why_?"

"The simplest explanation for that is that _their_ thoughts _also_ aren't secure." 

"It may be the _simplest_ , but that's probably not the _real_ reason, is it?" He doesn't respond. 

"Do you need me to know why you're acting from the Death Eaters' perspective to convince _them_ , or is it to keep the Order from picking through my thoughts?" Something, maybe it's the bond or something in his face, but _something_ makes her certain she's on the right track. "You do! You need to keep the Order from accessing my memories..." She's not quite right, but has gotten unexpectedly close. "Who else on our side knows Legilimency?"

"Precious few," he answers accurately. _That_ fact annoys him greatly. The laziness involved is _unforgivable_. "Bit of an oversight, wouldn't you agree?"

"Isn't it sufficient to protect your motives just from the one side. Why do we need to keep it from both? It's not as though anyone would expect me to know what's _really_ going on or to have passed along reliable or accurate information. Anything I relay could just be _discounted_."

"The secondary benefit, as you experienced before when you attempted to tell Albus about our shared dessert," she blushes, and he decides that indicates she isn't trying to be _difficult_ , merely to _comprehend_ , "is if you are _unsure_ of my motives, it will keep you from _revealing_ them."

"You want to guarantee I don't, I _can't_ speak to members of the Order about... about things." She's not sure what exactly he needs her to keep secret, but she's horrified at the idea. In some ways, this feels a lot like the Oath the Headmaster made her take. She definitely wasn't _fond_ of the Oath, but this is _worse_ for two very important reasons. 

Firstly, the success of this approach rests solely on a state of constant distrust between them that seems... unhealthy at best. Secondly, it seems for some reason _crucial_ that he, they, achieve it, and she is quite sure they _can't_. She fails entirely to see _how_ she can distrust him, at the very least in light of what the bond reveals, and for _exactly_ the same reason she knows he's serious about _needing_ to do so. If they _need_ this, she is absolutely _certain_ , they're royally... buggered. 

He doesn't respond immediately, but takes a moment to think about how best to handle this. He knows a great many things will change once he's... dealt with Albus, and that he needs to start making preparations for that point in time even _now_ in their interactions, always presupposing they both even survive that long, that is. 

It leaves a very bad taste in his mouth to think he might be... _grooming_ her for the time when the Order no longer trusts him. And then he decides that as _she_ won't trust him then either, he can view it simply as ensuring the safety of any information to which she'll be privy, either from sharing chambers or through the bond. She won't, she couldn't _possibly_ be on side. This _isn't_ about winning her over. 

"There will come a time, reasonably soon, when I will be forced to take action that will leave the Order in _no doubt_ that I am not to be trusted." 

"Forced by which side?" She asks, identifying the root of the problem that many might have overlooked, immediately noticing the passive voice.

"Both, actually. But the actions and results both sides require of me are the same."

"That's efficient," she answers, and he wonders if she might just be as fond of snark as he is. "But if both sides require it, how could the Order see it as disloyal?" 

"That rather depends on _what_ my orders are and _who_ is aware of them."

She tries to picture what the Death Eaters could want from him. 'Kill Harry.' She doesn't even like _thinking_ it, the very thought leaves her exceedingly uncomfortable, and so she tries being glib instead. 'Take Bellatrix clubbing.' It doesn't really help. _Baby seals_ , maybe. 'Take Bellatrix to the dentist.' _That_ actually helps until she thinks sadly of her parents. But it's only half the problem. 

She's having trouble picturing something both sides could conceivably want, or at least have use for, but that could be perceived as disloyal from their side...

It's all death and... She smiles. 'Do Professor Dumbledore's taxes.' She's _proud_ of that one. Assuming the Headmaster likes that about as much as her father... _had_ , it could be useful and... and now she's picturing Professor Dumbledore being audited and trying not to giggle. Fleetingly she wonders if the wizarding world even has taxes. How does the Ministry pay for itself? Is there even VAT? Her thoughts have a habit of racing away with her, galloping off, and she has to rein them back in. 

But try as she might, she honestly can't imagine what assignment of his could meet those requirements and admits defeat. For the moment anyway. 

Severus, for his part, has carefully watched her face, listened to the bond, and hasn't the _hint_ of a clue what's going on in that bushy little head of hers. She's impossible to follow. And the smile was frankly disturbing given the topic, but then _he_ has the questionable advantage of being the only one to know what they're actually discussing. 

"And you're trying to make sure I'll doubt you then so I can't reveal... whatever about you to them?"

"No, Miss Granger. I am quite certain I won't need to make you doubt me at that time. You _will do so_ of your own accord. But it would be helpful if you doubt me earlier so that you haven't revealed anything critical _before_ that time."

She can tell he's telling the truth. No, that's wrong. He believes the _truth_ of what he's saying. That doesn't _mean_ it's the absolute truth as such. 

"But you'll be acting in the Order's interests." He nods. She _needs_ to be uncertain about his disloyalty, too. If she has no doubts at all about his loyalty to the Death Eaters then, if she is _positive_ he's _their_ man, her thoughts will be vulnerable to _them_ ; she wouldn't see it as disloyal. She can never be permitted to be certain one way or the other, now or later. There will _always_ need to be, at least a little, _doubt_. 

"Then I won't doubt you," she tells him simply, firmly convinced of the truth of her statement. He's equally certain there is _no chance_ she _won't_ doubt him once he's murdered a man she knows, respects and trusts. Probably the most loved, certainly the most revered, wizard in the U.K. But unquestionably, Albus' tweaking of the Vows that enabled the emotional connection has complicated this task most severely.

"There's little point in arguing it. We shall simply have to see when the time comes. In the meantime, if you were sincere in your offer to help, some doubt would be beneficial." Her expression and the bond are in clear agreement, she's having none of it. He has to refrain from pinching the bridge of his nose. She really is remarkably stubborn. "Try not to see it as disloyal, Miss Granger. It really _will_ help matters if you were to doubt me." 

"I don't think bad people walk around announcing they're bad. Likewise, I don't think people who can't be trusted would tell you as much. It rather defeats the purpose. And you couldn't believe them anyway," she tells him with some amusement. 

"They _might_ tell you so if _doing_ so _guaranteed_ them your silence. _That's_ the benefit to the Vow."

"And they wouldn't point that out either." She's sure.

"They..." He rejects the formulation. Making this concrete might help get his point across. " _I_ might if I'm toying with you. It can only help increase your doubt, and then we land exactly where we _need_ to. I meant it, Miss Granger. We _need_ the protection that uncertainty provides us." 

"I'm sorry, Sir, I don't believe it. You can spend a lot of time and effort trying to convince me it's true," he's inclined to think he already _has_ , "but I simply don't _believe_ it. And if you continue trying to convince me, or worse, actually were to somehow _manage_ to convince me, and I really don't think it will be an easy job given what the bond conveys," he'd agree with that in an instant, "then I think both of us will be _worse_ off for it. 

"'What if', Sir. Consider it. Let's assume you're an evil Death Eater." He snorts softly and raises his eyebrow, but she's undaunted. "Wouldn't it be better if you convinced me to _trust_ you? What you apparently want is for me to be unable to reveal things to the Order, as well. Why not try convincing me of the danger of _that_ instead? Wouldn't it be preferable to live in a state of trust? Constant doubt... That _must_ be wearing." 

He has no response to that. _Yes_ , it's exceedingly wearing living like that. He hates it. It's exhausting. He'd _hated_ the idea of even _more_ of it in his life. And naturally he'll never admit as much to _anyone_. He had a workable plan of how to approach this bond that Albus' meddling has thoroughly scotched, and he's trying to figure out how to make this work within the parameters he now faces. It's a pain in his arse is what it is.

"You weren't expecting the emotional component of the bond, were you?" She asks rather astutely. 

"I was not," he reluctantly confirms. 

"Sir, I'm not daring to suggest I know how to manage this better than you do, of course not, but perhaps you'll consider it. If we can reach a point where I'm truly convinced sharing information with either side puts you at risk, then that should do the trick every bit as well as doubting you would, and be a good deal more pleasant to boot." She smiles at him hopefully. 

Sunny picks that moment to reappear, although that's probably unfair, he seems to have been on an errand, and addresses Severus with some urgency, "He is _there_ , Master of Potions, Sir! He is _there_."

With a "Thank you, Sunny," Severus stands, offering no explanation for the message, and tells her, "I must take care of... some things. We'll have to continue this at a later date."

She rises with him, half reflexively, knocking Crookshanks from her lap in the process, who protests only slightly before advancing stealthily on Sunny, sniffing as he does. Sunny stares at him warily, visibly disquieted at being stalked and shifts his position to behind the Professor before 'popping' out of the room. Hermione, oblivious, nods her willingness to table their discussion for a later time, "Of course. But would you think about it? Not just discard it out of hand?"

"Miss Granger, I think you'll find I am far more concerned with finding _satisfactory_ solutions and a good deal less fussed with _who_ has suggested them. I can assure you, I'll give it the consideration it deserves." She can't explain it, the bond is hard to define, but she _knows_ that wasn't sarcasm. He turns and begins walking to the door. She follows him, again without thinking, as if to see him off. Probably because she is. 

"Oh, sorry, Sir, just one other thing. I don't mean to presume and leave things lying about, but I," her bottom lip disappears very briefly beneath her front teeth before she plunges on, "I wondered if you'd like me to leave the flowers out here? So you could enjoy them as well? To brighten the place?" His look isn't exactly encouraging, and her tone lowers and becomes less sure. "But if you don't like them, naturally I'll remove them and put them in my room..."

His lips again drawn, he's almost surprised to hear himself reply, "That won't be necessary. They're... acceptable. Why don't you leave them here?"

Her cheery grin at that leaves him wondering why he said it. "Goodnight then, Sir. I'll see you in the morning." Neither of them are sure if that's a statement or a question.

Now at the door, he nods a little stiffly, "Goodnight, Miss Granger." And still in his dress robes, he disappears into the gloom of the hallway, and Hermione places the flower arrangement on that magnificent dining table before retiring to her new room with Crooks in tow.

  



	37. 11 09-10 Sun - Mon - The Wedding Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Severus and Hermione_

Hermione has another exhausting night. The Calming Draught Madam Pomfrey had given her for tonight and tomorrow before she left the Infirmary had no doubt helped, but there's only so much it can do. Miracles don't come in liquid form, conveniently available by the phial. Left alone with her thoughts... Well, that's expecting rather a lot of the potion. For the third night in a row, she doesn't get much sleep. It takes its toll. 

This time, however, she has only her obsessive nature to blame. Or so she thinks. She's not always right. 

Much as she'd found fault with her meal in the context of a wedding dinner, she can't help thinking _this_ is effectively her _wedding night_. _That_ does not help her thoughts become _anything_ like _restful_. On the contrary, she finds herself wide awake into the wee hours of the morning.

She's still resolutely not thinking about... a whole _number_ of things. Any of the traditional wedding night activities, say. Definitely not. Particularly not as she's now more than a little concerned about what the _bond_ might relay. Holy cricket. _That_ could be mortifying. So, no, none of those thoughts occur to her whatsoever.  
  


It's proves a lot like trying not to think of a pink elephant on command.

* * *

  


Severus tosses and turns miserably in the bed next door, idly thinking as he pulls his duvet peevishly over his now exposed shoulder that _this_ is his wedding night. Marvellous. He's hardly an optimist, but he _had_ dared to envision that his wedding night, were he one day to marry, wouldn't involve sleeping _alone_ , and that the activities he and his thoroughly improbable partner were likely to engage in, _whatever_ form they took, might at least be _vaguely_ erotic in nature... And at the _very_ least not the beginning of what is presumably to become the _longest_ dry spell he's ever had. Always presupposing he lives long enough, that is. 

If he dies tomorrow, then that obviously won't have been the case. Small mercies. 

And now he wonders if he needs to count the years of his adolescence. There's no chance he'll live that long. Albus had virtually _promised_ him that. Fine. _Second_ longest dry spell. It lacks the pithiness 'longest' had, and now he's grumpier yet. Perfect. 

He punches his pillow in a largely fruitless effort to fluff it up.

Albus, thinking of the treacherous rat bastard, hadn't even _required_ the celibacy, which somehow makes things worse, that it's all his _own_ fault in some way. He'd feel better if it had been part of their Vows, but no... No, Albus prefers leaving people the illusion of choice, well aware they're the architects of their own misery. Severus would bet, if he looked, not that he has the _least_ desire to see any of the related recollections or associated emotions, he'd find a similar conversation in Miss Granger's memories, making her aware this was all _her_ choice. 

He puts an immediate halt to that line of complaint, he has no issues with celibacy, none whatsoever, because he has no intention of _ever_ laying a finger, or any _other_ body part for that matter, on the witch next door.

* * *

  


It's very late before she gets any sleep at all, and as the night progresses she becomes... sillier. Sleep deprivation and a bad case of nerves won't be helping. 

At some point she sits up, snags her wand from the top of Crook's carrier next to her bed, and begins to Transfigure the t-shirt she wears to sleep. Or _not sleep_ , as the case may be. Transfiguration proves sufficiently diverting, and she doesn't think as much about all those things she steadfastly isn't thinking about. It's more successful than she expected. But the longer she works, the more she's forced to recognise she's good at a wide _range_ of spells, but she may lack _finesse_. 

That's worrisome. 

And oddly, _that_ doesn't help her fall asleep any faster. 

She manages a passable negligée, for example. Sensible wedding night garb. Well, perhaps not _sensible_... But she can't seem to significantly change the fabric, generating lace and adornments without a launching point like Madam Pomfrey's handkerchiefs had offered proves completely beyond her capabilities. 

She Transfigures her sleepwear again. Now it's something floaty. Again, and it looks like something from the cover of one of her Gran's old bodice rippers. Again and it's barely decent. She keeps at it. Bar the Muggle-born badge, every single result is white, not that she particularly notices however, but that seems to be something she subconsciously associates with the... non-occasion. Her detail gets better the longer she works at it, but she realises she'll need a few books, and probably a couple of conversations with Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall before she makes any great strides.

* * *

  


He hasn't a clue when he last thought about sex this much. The minute he can't have something, it seems to become the centre of his focus. It's irksome and unworthy of him. It's not like he's some hormonal teenager any more. 

No. No, _that_ would be his _wife_.  
  


Bloody hell.

* * *

  


She considers the work Madam Pomfrey had done on her tops, quickly, off the cuff... The work the Professor had done on all the ornate wooden trim, on her bath, her entire _room_ , for that matter. It really was incredibly pretty. They both are capable of Transfigurations with so much more detail than she usually renders, and it's not _either_ of their specialties. 

Professor Dumbledore's flowers had been less of a surprise, from a one time Transfigurations Professor, but were another example. She suspects she's been measuring herself against people who aren't particularly ambitious, and it's given her a distorted sense of accomplishment. That she fails to recognise a large number of _their_ achievements never occurs to her.

* * *

  


She's quite evidently _still_ not sleeping. They, _he_ had ended their conversation abruptly before, and he hadn't had time to give her the Dreamless Sleep before he left. Well, he'd _had_ time. Merlin knows she manage to squeeze in a discussion about floral arrangements... It was _hardly_ a discussion, but he's not exactly being fair. Regardless, there hadn't been _adequate_ time for _explanations_ , and he didn't want to just press an addictive substance into her hands and dash off. 

But her apparent... _unease_ makes him feel a good deal better about what he's just... arranged. Sometimes he wonders if he still has a moral compass after everything he's seen and done. He worries occasionally that he may be becoming every bit as much a predator as Albus. He consoles himself that he probably won't live long enough for it to come to that, but some days he has a hard time recognising himself in the mirror. Meeting his own eyes is a whole different story. 

The longer she doesn't sleep, the more guilty he feels that he hadn't sorted the Dreamless Sleep right off. There had been no good excuse to wait. Except for not wishing to talk about... _it_ , he supposes. She had retired for the night when he returned, and... 

The _last_ thing he wanted to do was go to her closed door and knock. On _tonight_ of all nights. What would she have thought? _Worse_ , the bond would have told him _exactly_ what she was feeling all too clearly. 

Is he a coward? 

He honestly doesn't care. If that's cowardice, so be it. But _he_ did _not_ need to feel his bondmate's fear and loathing, and he didn't need to put _her_ in that situation when she's clearly still struggling with her experience from Friday. 

He makes a note to repeat his offer to Obliviate her should she wish.

* * *

  


She considers her bed. She's sitting on the softest sheet she's ever felt. It's frustratingly far more so than her nightgown, so much so that she _wants_ to feel it against her skin. She rubs her fingers back and forth over the equally silky duvet cover as she considers it, until they go a bit numb and tingly. It's a lovely sensation. 

And she noticed the bed warmed _itself_ when she crawled into it, almost like her Gran's electric blanket used to. And to think, just few hours ago, the bed and everything in it was a _bookshelf_. It's simply stunning. The duvet is light and warm and incredibly soft. It's like lying in a cloud. If clouds were warm and amazing and not cold and wet, that is. That's always been a bit of a disappointment, she thinks, remembering driving through clouds on a trip to the French Pyrenees with her parents. 

It's not that she needs the ability to Transfigure clothes so badly, she honestly has never cared _much_ about them, although she'll admit to a competitive streak, and she doesn't like being... overlooked. _Under appreciated_. But this hints at things she really hasn't begun to tap in to, and she finds that... worrisome. There's apparently a _lot_ she has no idea how to do, and it includes things others find... easy.

* * *

  


Albus is an arse. Severus is finding the idea of Avadaing him increasingly easier to stomach, but then that's probably half of the point. As though there could be any justification for the lengths he goes to... Hell, if Severus had demanded consummation, _sexual congress_ as his terms, he's quite certain it would have been met with 'I wouldn't dream of asking you _not_ to, my boy'. No, Albus would have happily served up the young woman next door to him on a... well appointed bed, probably.  
  


Well at least he'd given her that. A well appointed bed. He'd put a good deal of effort into it, too. Not that it mattered. He'd tried to provide. Crafted her a nice home. He's not a rotter like his worthless father was. He hasn't a clue why he bothered. He's an idiot and she'll never notice. 

And if she _did_ it would probably be even worse.  
  


When he dreams of her that night, it seems like he simply can't stop that anymore, he spends a lot of time Transfiguring her clothes into things less... tailored. Shapeless is good. And lace just needs to be outlawed. There's no two ways about it. That top had been frankly... disturbing.

* * *

  


It's past four before she drops off out of sheer exhaustion. 

As she falls asleep, her bare legs thoroughly tangled in the soft blanket, she thinks it's a little like being wrapped in his magic.  
  


No one but Crooks sees the smile on her face.

  



	38. 11 10a Monday - The Other Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Severus and Hermione, Crooks_

Hermione didn't sleep well. She tossed and turned. She woke to night terrors a number of times. When she wakes now, she's drenched in sweat. Apparently the exhaustion had finally been sufficient to permit her to sleep, despite her frankly disturbing dreams. She wonders why it's gotten so much worse. 

She wakes, somewhat disoriented, to a pitch black room with no idea where she is or what time it is. It must be early, as dark as it is, which isn't good, but helps explain her fatigue because she was up incredibly late - that much she somehow knows. She gropes about for her wand, finds it unexpectedly next to her in her bed, and casts a Tempus. The results are worse than anticipated. 

It immediately sends her shooting out of bed, startling a 'Mrowr' of protest from Crooks who was apparently lying beside her. It's half seven. Breakfast begins at eight. She casts a Lumos and bolts towards the left of the two unfamiliar doors in front of her, intending to try them clockwise, taking it as a good sign that _wherever_ she is, Crooks is there with her, throws it open only to face...

Absolutely blinding light. 

She stands there blinking repeatedly as her eyes adjust. When they do, and she walks out into that brightness, she discovers a now also blinking Potions Master standing at his desk in front of a brilliant wall of light, holding a scroll in his hand and staring at her. Speechless. 

Faster than she can follow, it's more an impression than something she sees properly, it can't have taken even a second, he has his wand in his hand and has Transfigured her clothing so that she's now wearing a black jogging suit, or at least the bottoms, with her baby doll top.

They stand there staring dumbly at one another for a moment as their thoughts catch up. She now knows _exactly_ where she is and remembers _why_. He also realises all too clearly what he's just done.  
  


"I..." he starts helplessly.

"You Transfigured my knickers," she informs him. 

He is all too aware. "I..." He tries again and gets no further.

Severus hadn't slept well. But then he frequently doesn't. What had been quite disturbing was a slightly... erotic component to his dreams. Given the prevalence of the young witch before him in those dreams, that left him... out of sorts. He had a hard... a difficult time not seeing _her_ in that chair, struggling to keep his focus on the ropes binding her there and not her rent blouse. Or what lay beneath. 

"You Transfigured my knickers," she repeats, dumbfounded. He's not faring much better. What can he say? He _really_ hadn't had much sleep himself, it had been a _completely_ reflexive action, and he doubts telling her he had dreamt of Transfiguring her clothes no less than a couple dozen times just in those few hours he slept in the past night alone will prove _remotely_ comforting to her. But it seems it had become something of a idee fixe. 

"I am _so_ sorry, Miss Granger." He hardly recognises his voice. It sounds... strangled. "I can't apologise enough. I..." Dropping the scroll to his desk, he summons the throw from the bench seat behind him in front of a... 

Holy Cricket. It's a gigantic window running the entire upper half of the length of the room from the kitchen to the reading nook, or what now serves as his study. What she had taken for black glass, a backsplash, the night before, by day becomes a window presumably to the Black Lake. She stands there staring at it, gobsmacked, completely forgetting the state of her knickers for a moment. 

Severus most definitely does _not_. And then wishes _most_ sincerely that he weren't considering her undergarments _at all_. He takes the blanket, the red one, as it happens, although that's pure chance, and wraps it gently but quite thoroughly around her shoulders before muttering the Finite Incantatem that returns her clothing to its previous form. The sight of her now swaddled in _red_ helps set something to rights in his mind. Here stands the young Gryffindor... He's lacking a suitable noun. Swot? Princess? He still isn't quite sure _what_ she is other than _ridiculously_ young and _completely_ off limits. 

It had been _exceedingly_ disconcerting to see her rush into the room, scantily clad, hair suggestively tousled, the sheen of sweat on her very, very visible skin... That garment she was wearing, much too thin and almost obscenely stuck to that glistening skin, fitted, at least where it counted, and _far_ too short had left her knickers disturbingly on display. He had acted without thought. And presumably added another violation to her person to those the last few days had already brought. 

"Forgive the presumption, Miss Granger. That was highly improper."

"That's alright, Sir. It just took me by surprise." He seems genuinely contrite, absolutely _mortified_ , even, and she has no wish to belabour the point. But it is a _very_ odd sensation indeed to have the clothes on one's body rearranged in such a fashion. 

"I won't be making a habit out of it," he assures her. She bites back a mischievous comment, and then another, wisely settling on silence and a nod instead. He really doesn't look like he could take the teasing at the moment, and it might be taking things a step too far.

"I also need to apologise for not setting the Charm on your window. I should have considered that you'd be unfamiliar with it," he adds, and she realises, a little foolishly, that the expanse of black glass in her room is naturally also a window. "I'll set it for you now, if you'd like, and teach you the Charm tomorrow." He asks her when she'd like to rise, and at her request sets the Charm for seven. Apparently the time light is admitted can be controlled in this fashion, as well as allowing for privacy, much like curtains might. Only later does it occur to her it was much too bright for the hour. 

"Would you take a seat?" He asks, gesturing towards what she's beginning to think of as her chair. 

When she's seated, still wrapped in the blanket, he asks if she'd like a cup of tea, "With milk, please, if you have it," which he then summons from the kitchen and floats over to her. The feline has resumed its guard of her lap before the cup can even reach her. With a slight grimace, he waves his wand anew, and soon a saucer of milk wafts to the kitchen floor. His willingness to do so is no doubt increased by the fact Miss Granger can't see it from where she is seated. The ungrateful but presumably loyal cat, however, does not abandon his mistress. 

"It's good that you caught me before I left," Severus tells her. "I had a couple of things I wished to speak to you about."

She tenses, which is stupid, but it's automatic. She assumes she's done something wrong. That's also a little sad, as all she's really done is sleep, or not, as the case may be, since they spoke to one another last. But the bond reveals she's not in any trouble, and she quickly relaxes, although that flicker of tension bothers him more than he'd care to admit. 

He's again taken the seat opposite her, and just as he had last night seems slightly ill at ease in it. It borders on fidgeting, which somehow doesn't seem like him. 

"First and foremost, I thought it might provide some comfort for you to know Mr. Malfoy will not be in any of your classes today." Relief and curiosity compete in her reaction, but he has _no_ intention of telling her what he's done. "I'm afraid that won't, _can't_ be a more permanent solution, but at least until the bonding is announced, with the protection that should provide, this should serve to give you a measure of... peace. A respite, if you will.

"I would also like to release you from the Oath you took yesterday not to discuss what I hope to gain from the bonding, or any other points I broached, for that matter. If you would extend your wand, please?"

She does as he wishes without hesitation, but asks, "Why?"

"The Loyalty Vow should supersede it, and it doesn't do to have too many Oaths to consider," he answers simply, but she has the distinct feeling she's missing something there. Nevertheless, magic flares, and that's one less constriction in her life. 

"I would respectfully also like to repeat my offer to Obliviate any memories from Friday that prove too trying for you." When she declines, he proceeds, "I won't insult your intelligence by repeating the offer again, but know that if you change your mind at some point in the future, you may come to me. The offer stands, and you will _not_ be hurt."

"I really wasn't worried about that aspect, but thank you, Sir."

He simply nods, "I also wanted to speak with you briefly about Dreamless Sleep."

And suddenly it occurs to her why he might have brought up three of these topics this morning. "I kept you up last night." It's one thing when she's only affecting herself, but she hadn't meant to drag him into her problems. Well, _further_... "I'm very sorry, Sir. Naturally, I'll take Dreamless Sleep if that would help."

"No, Miss Granger. You most certainly will _not_. It is an addictive substance and not to be used lightly. If you wish to take it for entirely your _own_ reasons, you may do so, obviously, but I will monitor your consumption to make sure you aren't harmed in the process. I must insist on that. However you will _not_ take it so that _I_ may sleep. If I require more sleep, I am perfectly capable of taking a sleeping aid of my own. I do _not_ need you to do so for me. We are clear?"

"Is that the Protection Vow acting, because I'd think the Loyalty Vow would allow..."

"No, Miss Granger," his tone is somewhat biting as he interrupts, and she begins to think she may have offended him. "It's _common courtesy_. I will not have you trying to accommodate my needs to your own detriment." 

"Yes, Sir. I didn't mean... Of course." She swallows and weighs her options. "I _am_ sorry I kept you up, but if it really is all the same to you, I'd like to try managing _without_ Dreamless Sleep for a while and see how it goes?"

"It's probably the wiser choice," he readily agrees. "But keep in mind, _that_ offer stands as well. I would not allow it to... damage you if you want the assistance. Don't hesitate to ask if you need the help. There's no shame in doing so." The smile she greets that with leaves him somewhat bewildered, but takes some of the sting out of the previous perceived slight. 

A little taken aback, he rises, "I'll be on my way then. We'll..." The sheer panic he feels from her as her eyes dart to the door stops him cold. Of course. She's in the Slytherin dungeons, far from her friends, and hasn't the least desire to enter a hallway alone where she might expect to come face to face with the boys who had tormented her just a few nights ago. He's taken measures, but she has no way of knowing, either that or how effective they'll prove. 

"Would you like me to wait for you?" He asks her quietly, and is extremely disturbed to see tears of relief form in the corners of her eyes. He pretends not to notice, which she greatly appreciates. 

She swallows the lump forming in her throat before answering, "Would you please? If you wouldn't mind?"

"Go get ready then, I still have some things to look over," he tells her as though he had always intended to do so, and she dashes back to her room to get changed. He can feel her gratitude all too distinctly.

"I just need fifteen minutes," she calls over her shoulder as the door shuts behind her. He thinks he'll be rather surprised if that's true. _Women_. 

Crooks makes his way to the hearth and curls up in front of it. That's the third time in under twelve hours his witch has sent him flying, the second this morning alone. If anyone _else_ treated him that way... But he's extremely fond of his person, and he'll forgive her almost anything. _Eventually_. He lies there, his tail twitching, watching their new wizard intently. 

Severus, unaware of his audience, remains standing there for another few moments, his gaze shifting from her closed door to the bouquet on his, _their_ dining room table. He stares at the vase as he contemplates his situation. Married. _Bonded_. To the woman _dressing_ behind the door to his left... 

The vase is an excellent representation of the changes the last day has brought. 

It's never been used before. At least not by him. Anyone who had considered the colour, quite evidently suited to his _kitchen_ , might have guessed. That's hardly where one would place a flower arrangement in these quarters, a supposition he feels confirmed by the fact she did not seem to even _consider_ it when deciding where to position the bouquet. Although it looks... _appropriate_ in front of the painting, he must concede.

The vase is a piece of West German art pottery, from the days that distinction mattered. A fantastically tactile fat lava work from the 50's that he'd been exceedingly pleased to find at a car boot sale not that long after the first war, back when he was anxiously avoiding the wizarding world during the summer hols. It's nearly identical to the one his mum used to treasure before his father deliberately smashed it during a row, only narrowly avoiding her skull.

The volcanic glaze perfectly matches the bowl he uses for fruit that he'd found in the local charity shop a few years before that. It's probably where his mum sourced her vase, on consideration. He'd bought it immediately thinking of her; it hadn't hurt that it had come cheap and he was able to afford it. The vase, naturally, had been an even luckier find. He'd then Transfigured the glaze on the plates to match in colour. 

Reddish oranges and blues were far more common of the style and era, and he might objectively even like them more, or at least the blue. That specific yellow was less popular, and had been harder to find, but it reminded him of home. He's not exactly sure why he would _want_ to be reminded of that, but it does it's job, encapsulating both the good and the bad succinctly. He likes the pieces, he was pleasantly surprised when he found them, but they don't make him happy. Typical. Probably because they do their job of reminding him of home so well.

And there that vase now sits, its inaugural use, to hold his _wife's bridal bouquet_. Very much things he never expected, never mind the _identity_ of said wife, certainly not when he'd last left these chambers on Friday. He shakes the thoughts off before they can worm their way too deeply into his consciousness. Today will be challenging enough. 

He returns to his seat and summons the two scrolls from his desk. He reads through them carefully, alternately nodding and shaking his head, on the second scroll far more so, before applying an Incendio to each in turn when he's done. He finds that more viscerally satisfying than Vanishing them would be, although he now has to apply that very charm to the ash left behind. 

In her bath, Hermione downs her morning dose of Calming Draught, applies the Cleansing Charm to herself, but forgoes the Dentifricium, she might have overdone it on the weekend, in favour of a good old-fashioned Muggle toothbrush. That is in _no way_ an accurate description of the thing as it has all the bells and whistles of toothbrush development as befits the child of two dentists, but Hermione tends not to notice that. What she _does_ notice is that she definitely prefers the minty feeling that toothpaste leaves. 

She rushes back into her room, summons her clothes and her books and hastily dresses. When she emerges texts in hand barely fourteen minutes later, just as Severus Incendios the second scroll, he finds himself forced to admit there may be a distinction between 'women' and 'witches'. Pleasantly surprised and perhaps a little impressed, not that he'd admit it, he stands to escort the little witch to the... _their_ door. Her Gryffindor robes and very obvious student uniform make its communality less comfortable than it might have been just a minute ago. 

"Should I put Crooks in my room?" She asks, still at her door, as she Banishes the throw back to the... window seat. 

It hardly seems... right to leave the creature penned up all day. "You are quite certain he'll behave?"

"He will," she repeats her previous assurance. Crooks simply studies the design on the rug before him, as though none of this concerned him.

"In that case, no. Leave him out here, he'll have more room." Severus imagines he's used to roaming the Tower, or perhaps further. With all her housemates coming and going, he will hardly have been confined. It must make for an unfortunate change in circumstances for him as well. With a wry huff Severus thinks that leaves the Kneazle in very good company. 

When Miss Granger moves to shut her door, she had noticed he keeps all of his closed and meant to follow suit, he stops her, "You may leave your door open for him." That comes as a bit of a relief, as his water and food bowls were in her bathroom, and she's lacking in time to sort that properly. Of course, _now_ she regrets not making her bed, but she _had_ been rather discombobulated earlier... Before either of them return, naturally, Sunny will have seen to the bed, but she's not accustomed to thinking that way. She wonders if the Freshening Charm would have made it without a person between the covers, how it manifests with an empty bed...

She throws Crooks a last farewell, admonishes him to be good and then quickly picks up her empty tea cup to return it to the kitchen as she makes to follow the Professor from... their chambers. When she reaches the sink, she's pleased to see Sunny has even put out milk for Crooks behind the island. She hadn't thought he liked her 'beastie' much. Spotting the fruit bowl and sorely tempted, she finds herself asking, "May I take some of the grapes?"

The look that garners her is inexplicably puzzled, but he readily answers, "You may help yourself to anything you wish in the kitchen. There is no need to ask."

She eagerly snags some grapes and follows him, biting back a perfectly cheeky comment about the fact _he_ is in fact currently standing in what is very objectively the kitchen over there by the island. Nerves, she supposes. She can't seem to help herself. But he _really_ provides far too many openings... 

Severus for his part can't begin to fathom her amusement. With slight consternation, he heads for... their door.

* * *

  


He opens the door and checks the hallway. Her impression last night was correct, she can indeed see much further in both directions than the line of sight should permit. Magic can be lovely, physics be damned. No one is currently visible, which is just as well, as there's no good explanation for her leaving his quarters at this hour. Or at all, really. _That_ should be sorted sometime today, although both doubt they'll find much comfort in that. 

He exits before her and then turns subtly to watch how she responds to his wards as she crosses them. Having ascertained the coast is clear, she leaves the Notice-Me-Not field to join him. The wards ripple across her skin as she shuts the door behind her, and her eyes half close as a small, involuntary sigh of regret escapes. She _definitely_ preferred being on the other side of them. Severus hasn't the advantage of knowing her thoughts, and isn't quite sure why she found them pleasant yesterday but not today. He fails to consider directionality. At the moment anyway. 

Unlike last night, as he turns to stride off towards the Great Hall, he doesn't slow particularly so she can keep up. She needs to half trot to do so, leaving her grapes untouched on top of her books as she goes. It might have seemed odd had they been walking side by side, but Hermione had sensed his irritation when she kept her distance yesterday, and she suspects this is something she hadn't quite handled well. She does her best to keep up now.

That goes fairly well, actually, until they round the next corner and come face to face with the Bloody Baron, chains and all. Which is foolish, he's _always_ in those chains. She hasn't a clue why that's startling. It's probably just running into him like this. She freezes in her tracks, and she supposes she must have... squeaked. She's taking to squeaking. Perfect. But her movement is arrested and then she's confused to feel the Professor's hand on her shoulder. Apparently he had returned for her. 

"Come, Miss Granger. We're running rather late." He can feel her nerves all too clearly. The Baron is terrifying on a good day, and the last few days have been far from good. Severus makes an effort to diffuse the situation. 

"Miss Granger, allow me to introduce you, the Baron. Baron, may I present, Madam Snape." 

He can feel her relax slightly as the Baron bows formally and then sombrely greets her, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper, "Madam Snape." 

"Come now, breakfast waits," and with his hand still on her shoulder, he gives her a slight squeeze to ground her and then steers her past their phantasmal guardian. 

The Baron floats silently off in the direction they had just left. There he will keep other residents of the dungeons from following too closely on their heels. It's proven remarkably effective to claim Peeves is waiting ahead. The students learn early to wait or take another route. Only the rare Firstie doesn't heed the warning, but _they_ invariably find the Bloody Baron's _own_ presence so daunting as to simply do as he commands.

This manoeuvre had provided them with the solitude Hermione found so fortuitous on their way to the Great Hall. Severus originally had assumed _his_ company would be unwanted, and had arranged for the spectral honour guard last night. Given her nervousness faced with the Slytherin House ghost, however, perhaps this was the better solution after all.

Her anxiety hasn't completely diminished, so Severus proceeds to explain, "The Baron is the one who alerted me to your... predicament Friday and called me to... assist." 

"I'm sorry, I didn't know."

"Obviously. He won't have taken offence. But you have nothing to fear from him, I can assure you, and you may rely on him for any assistance he can provide."

"Thank you, Sir," she replies, intuiting that he probably has something to do with that fact. She knows he left last night to do... something, she'd felt his sense of purpose when he did, and she now has some ideas of just what he might have been up to. 

They reach the doors to the Great Hall and both stop, thinking much the same thing. "Why don't you go ahead, Sir?" She suggests. "I'll see you later then." He simply nods, looking just a little grim, and enters before her. Neither one comments on the fact that when they _do_ see each other later, presumably a fair few more people should be aware of their bonding. The thought is nerve wracking enough.

  



	39. 11 10b Monday - Breakfast with Berks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hermione, Harry, Ron_

There were the initial greetings, a little awkward as all of them _know_ Ron _didn't visit_ her in the Infirmary, or _want_ to, and now they're stuck playing happy families. The fact she's now sitting without apparent injury across from him so quickly after... _whatever_ it was this time, leaves him feeling vindicated in his choice. She won't soon forget he wasn't there for her. Again.

They're helped past the uncomfortable silences when Professor Dumbledore announces classes will begin half an hour late this morning to general approval. Ron seems to think they could've just cancelled the day entirely, _completely_ failing to recognise how _vital_ class time is seven months before N.E.W.T.s, and he really wouldn't have minded a bit of a lie in had they thought to mention it further in advance. Because it's all about _his_ convenience, _obviously_. 

Hermione's reasonably convinced he's already had _two_ lie ins this weekend, perhaps as late as _half eight_ , lazy sod. Because _all_ teenagers _dream_ of rising at half eight on weekends, naturally, although it follows that's probably only when they're fortunate enough to actually _sleep_. In Ron's case, Hermione knows with certainty, only the driving need for food pries him from bed. She's wrong; _sometimes_ the motive is Quidditch, but she tends to forget that. 

Unsurprisingly, her mood isn't improving as she suspects she knows just _why_ classes are beginning later, and Ron might be justified finding her a _bit_ of a shrew. Likewise, she's not completely wrong seeing in him something of an insensitive, lazy slob. Particularly as he continues to chew with his mouth open and speak with it exceedingly full. 

A look at the Professor, seated at the Head Table, would seem to confirm her suspicions as to the delayed classes. And then she realises she can't actually _see_ the tension in his face, it's just something she feels across their bond. He senses her glance and returns it. His lips pressed in a thin line, he inclines his head towards her, ever so slightly, as he stands to follow Albus and the other teachers out to the staff meeting. Silently, she wishes him luck.

"So Terry Boot told me Saturday..." Ron calls her attention back to their table. 

"You mean when you were at Quidditch practice?" Hermione asks innocently. Harry just winces and concentrates on his plate, having no real Exploding Snap face to speak of. But the fruit preserves are just lovely this morning... Yes, they are.

"Uh, well, after that, I guess." In a way, Hermione feels forced to admit, it almost speaks _for_ Ron that he is such a _wretched_ liar. She's just not feeling all too generous at the moment. "So Terry says that Malfoy had somehow gotten himself in trouble with Dumbledore..."

"Professor Dumbledore," she corrects, half automatically, but half because she's still rather annoyed with Ron. 

"Right, and so he had detention with Filch, cleaning _all weekend_. He must have done something _really_ stupid. Well, and gotten caught, which I guess was stupid enough." Hermione would tend to agree, getting _caught_ was probably his problem. She has _no words_. But then, she _wouldn't_ thanks to Dumbledore's Oath. There's a tightness in her features both boys miss. 

"So we went to take a look, and sure enough, Filch has got him _mopping_ the hallways. Y'know, by hand?" Ron pretends to push an invisible mop in demonstration, as though his two _Muggle-raised_ friends might not know what he means. Hermione suspects she's a good deal more familiar with that concept than he is. Spoilt prat. 

"So Fred and George, they sent me their new Pocket Swamp for trial. They're calling it the Draught of Dirt, yeah? It's one of their new potions, because like you said, you can't get _Charms_ past Filch, but he's pants with _Potions_..." 

"So _that_ you remember, but when I try to talk to you about Gamp's Law, your eyes glaze over?" She sounds more than a little indignant, and Harry goes back to studying his plate. Maybe another bap...

"Are you going to let me tell the story or what?" Ron's got his back up now, and Harry decides he might have to intervene. 

"Mate, pass the currant preserves, would you? 'Mione, wouldn't you like some?" He asks hopefully. "They're really _very_ good." It's not the greatest ploy. Food is best used as a distraction for _Ron_.

"Thanks, Harry, but I'll have some fruit instead." She gestures towards her grapes, still sitting on her pile of books beside her. 

"Hey, where'd you get the grapes?" Ron asks as he helps himself generously to some of hers and begins to stuff his face, always on the lookout, as he is, for new food sources. 

"So what about the Dirty Draught?" Hermione prompts, looking a tad annoyed at what little now remains of her healthy snack. She begins to peck at them, trying to get some while they last.

"Draught of Dirt. So Seamus and I borrowed Harry's cloak, yeah, and we snuck up to the corridor Malfoy's scrubbing, give it a good shake, unstopper the phial and... _boom_ , before you know it, dirt, swamp, mud, _everywhere_! It was mental!"

"Sounds it," Hermione responds dryly. 

"Well, you probably had to be there..." Ron sounds a little disappointed. Harry and Dean had seemed far more amused when they told them the story yesterday. But then he _had_ to tell it; he'd promised Fred to do some advertising in return for the sample. Maybe the secret was in Seamus' recounting. He's pretty good at that. Especially the 'boom'. 

"I'm sorry I _couldn't have been_ , but I was stuck in the _Infirmary_ ," she snarks. Getting _bonded_. Crikey. She may also be becoming increasingly passive aggressive. The boys certainly have no response to her dig. Hermione takes a calming breath and tries again. 

"So you made a mess, and Malfoy mopped it up?" She recaps, making sure she has the salient points. 

"Well, yeah..." Ron sounds even less sure of himself now, but then picks up steam again. Harry hadn't even heard this part yet, and it's the best bit, he's certain, "So then Terry comes up to me this morning, yeah, and it turns out Malfoy was _so_ beat by the time it was done, must've been dead tired, he's on the seventh floor by the Grand Staircase. Or anyhow that's what the Fat Friar told the Grey Lady, and she told Terry." Splendid, _now_ they're playing Chinese whispers. "So he must've missed the Disappearing-step, or the stairs shifted, whatever, but he takes a tumble from the very top down the centre of the stairwell." 

He whistles, one long descending tone, makes a spiralling downward motion with his index finger and completes his illustration with a 'splat'. "I mean, there wasn't much Filch could do but watch, right?" Ron sticks his tongue out in mock concentration and mimes a hopeless wand movement. "Must've been brilliant."

Harry's about to laugh, if only at Ron's expression, when Hermione's horrified voice cuts across their spot of fun. 

"He fell seven stories?! How is that _brilliant_?" She's _hardly_ Malfoy's well-wisher at this point, quite the contrary, but _that_ sounds a lot like guaranteed _death_ , unless the ferret suddenly sprouted wings or learned to fly, and not the least bit 'brilliant'. She wouldn't wish that on _anyone_ , and she's more than a little appalled at Ron's glee. But that insensitivity had been half of the reason for Friday's... events, really. She's also a little nervous that she might know _who_ had something to do with this, and that's... Well, it just makes her nervous, that's all. 

"Well, somebody caught him. Arresto Whatsit." 

"Momentum," she supplies automatically. He doesn't seem appreciative. "Really, Ronald? That's a _second year_ Charm." _That_ hardly seems to increase his appreciation. "And from that height, it was probably Duo," she adds pedantically, only making things worse. Magic is all well and good, but physics can't be _completely_ discounted. Momentum indeed. If that Charm isn't applied properly, from _that_ height it could be like hitting a brick wall. Or, well, _floor_... 

Their bickering has eclipsed any reaction Harry might have had. He simply sits there, scanning the table for more pumpkin juice. 

He loves them both, he truly does, but he's reaching a point where he loves them... _separately_ more. The weekend with her in the Infirmary had certainly been... easier. He _almost_ feels guilty for that, she'd been _injured_ after all, but it's not like either of _them_ feel guilty for ruining _his_ breakfast. This _can't_ be good for the digestion. 

Slightly cross, Ron continues, "Anyroad, he's hardly _dead_ or anything. He's just in the Infirmary. Merlin, 'Mione, _relax_ would you? It's only Malfoy." She lets out a breath she didn't realise she was holding, and feels guilty for having done the Professor an injustice. It's his own fault though really, telling her just yesterday that he's a cold-blooded murderer... What was she supposed to have thought?

Well, not _that_ apparently. She _really_ should know better. And he _did_ say it was just a temporary solution with Malfoy missing class. She pinks a little in embarrassment, which the boys mistake for chagrin at Ron's rebuke. 

And then out of the blue, she's suddenly rocked by pain. Pain that _doesn't_ hurt. There's no better way to describe it. It's acute and bad, yet _not_ , and definitely _not_ her _own_. She rises hastily from her seat, grabs her books, mumbles something about having forgotten... _whatever_ and meeting the boys in Charms class and darts from the Hall, trying to guess where her bondmate has gone. 

As she passes through the doors, a large knot of Slytherins enter, complaining loudly about Peeves, until someone at their table tells them they have an extra half an hour for breakfast this morning. They can hardly believe their luck. Hermione fails to register that she hardly notices them, doesn't spare them even a single glance, and in fact has no problems whatsoever as she pushes through their midst in her hurry to get where she's going.  
  


An hour ago, she wouldn't have thought that possible.

  



	40. 11 10c Monday - Filling in Faculty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Severus, Terrence 'Call-Me-Terry' Taylor, Hagrid, Miscellaneous Faculty_

Severus has been having quite the morning. It hadn't been _good_. It's gotten _worse_. Staff responded much as was to be expected. They're suitably terrified to hear of an attack on a student on Hogwarts' grounds. They were _all sympathy_ for the poor people bonded despite not being romantically involved; how _could_ Albus? Just _bursting_ with outrage on behalf of the piteous bastard subjected to the Protection Vow. Right up until they knew it was _him_ , that is. 

Septima all but accused him of being a paedo. Hooch gave him a nudge and a wink. He honestly couldn't have said which was preferable. Taylor was hardly any better than Rolanda, just less... physical about it. Which only proved none of them had believed a word of their not being a couple. 

Sybill frankly hasn't liked him since the prophecy fiasco. She just screamed, "I knew it!" 

Severus, criminally slow this morning, but that was probably still from the strain of the weekend and the lack of sleep, made the mistake of replying. "Your _gift_?" It was snarled and patently derisive. 

"Oh, no. _I_ am and have always been an accomplished student of human nature," her knobby hands waved so dramatically, it bordered on flailing. Irma had had to duck to avoid being struck. Sybill continued in her grandiloquent fashion, her eyes blinking vaguely unfocused behind those bottle-bottom lenses of hers. Although, the lack of focus might have been the sherry he could smell on her... "This _trespass_ was only to be expected of the likes of _you_." 

He had practically handed her that one and resolved to say nothing more. He wasn't going to sway them anyway. 

But Hagrid... 

Yes. _Hagrid_ had demanded to know what he'd done with 'our 'ermione' and had thrown him against a wall so hard he'd broken three ribs. That had been rather the highlight. 

Albus hadn't even moved, just, "Now, Hagrid..." which oddly hadn't served to slow the half-giant any.

Filius had tried to intervene on his behalf. Sadly without magic. Astonishingly, that achieved bugger all, but Severus gave him points for his big little heart, if only a few. And just as Severus was _reasonably_ sure he was about to puncture a lung, Poppy swooped in and gave Hagrid a stern _talking to_. Severus considers himself blessed. It's not like these people could work magic and... Oh, wait. 

Hagrid, naturally, hadn't seemed all that inclined to listen until Minerva, somewhat unexpectedly, joined Poppy in explaining Severus had actually protected 'their' 'ermione. 

Something self-loathing, vaguely suicidal and _highly_ antagonistic in him had him _just_ a breath away from pointing out she's _his_ 'ermione now, as long as he could still breathe that is, except he's not _quite_ that reckless and just couldn't bring himself to say the name. Butchered or not. 

Poppy set to healing him, once Hagrid released him and Severus slid inertly down the wall that is, just yet another Episkey or three, who's counting, while Minerva tried to make the big oaf understand. Through it all, Severus didn't say another word. He _hates_ the _lot_ of them.

And that's where he is, where he lies when he feels a surge of concern shoot through their bond like nothing he's ever felt before. He's Occluding, he always Occludes, but not as robustly in these surroundings as he might... elsewhere. And in the face of the onslaught, emotional and physical, he hadn't kept his shields up as he perhaps normally would. Which means _she_ now has a reasonable idea of how he's doing, and _he_ can feel her concern all too vividly. 

It's dizzying. It takes getting used to, the sensation is overwhelming. Yesterday, he'd lost consciousness faced with it. Today he fares better. But only just. Fortunately all present assume that's due to Hagrid's manhandling. That actually prises a "Sorry, Perfessor," from the man mountain. Severus couldn't care less.

He closes his eyes and explores the sensation. He still hurts, no question, but... The concern is a balm of sorts. And yet another mockery, because he knows he doesn't really matter, not like that, to her or anyone else, but it's nice, just for a moment, to lie there with his eyes closed and pretend. 

That just frightens a number of those gathered so that a moment later he can feel Hagrid trying to scoop him up in his arms and offering Poppy to carry him to the Infirmary as the Mediwitch tries to pour a potion down his throat. Severus coughs and sputters, wiping the Pain Relief a bit foolishly from his chin. He probably could have used it, but he has only just escaped her dominion; he has no intention of returning so soon. And so he opens his eyes and wriggles awkwardly from Hagrid's clutches, leaning very heavily against the wall as he does so. Poppy is still scolding the man, Minerva repeating her words of pacification, with some success, as Hagrid can't seem to stop apologising. 

Severus staggers away from them and towards the door, needing to be... elsewhere. Just... not with _them_ anymore. What he probably needs is a month in the Lake District. Without abuse. Neither are likely. 

The majority stay where they are, content to argue. Taylor seems to be trying to accompany him. Maybe even to see if he's alright. Or perhaps he's trying to have a chat, to show he's 'one of the lads'... Severus isn't quite sure. All he knows is that as he slips from the faculty room, the annoying new DADA professor follows him and won't stop talking.

"Snape! I say, _excellent_ choice, mate!" The 'mate' is still English, the accent decidedly American, although he supposes an American might still find it foreign enough as to consider it English. 'Mate', Severus imagines, is still preferable to 'buddy', although they are very clearly neither. 

Toirdhealbhack Taylor, 'Terrence' for those with any desire to pronounce his name, or 'Call me Terry' as he invariably insists, is the latest in the long chain of DADA instructors, and about as qualified as Umbridge or Lockhart had been. He has _yet_ to notice no one has taken him up on his offer to actually call him 'Terry'. He's a Muggle-born fresh from the States, where he'd lived the past twenty odd years, and Severus can't help thinking he got his degree from whatever their equivalent is to Kwikspell. 

He's a blond man, prettier than Lockhart by far, several inches shorter than Severus, with American teeth and a highly dubious tan that looks like it came from a phial. He hasn't mastered Gilderoy's tooth sparkle, no loss, but has a similar obnoxious bonhomie, all the more so for its possible _sincerity_. It sets Severus' properly crooked teeth on edge. Taylor's robes are less ostentatious than Lockhart's, small mercies, but his confidence is almost equally unflagging, although presumably less justified, given Severus doubts he's even mastered Memory Charms. In all fairness, it's probably _optimism_ and not confidence, but Severus has a hard time distinguishing that, optimism as utterly foreign to him as it is.

Taylor had been a Hufflepuff as a boy, a year behind Severus at Hogwarts, in Regulus Black's class. When the First Wizarding War became increasingly dangerous for the Muggle-born and their families, his parents, reasonably well-to-do and able to afford such steps, had had the foresight to take their son and flee beyond Voldemort's reach. He'd only been a third year when Eugenia Jenkins was ousted as Minister for Magic and his family moved. Because he came from 'war-torn' Europe, however, he apparently was seen as someone with more 'Defence experience', which helped land him the job of DADA instructor at Ilvermorny for the last two years. 

_That_ just annoys for several reasons, the U.K. clearly _not_ being Europe, the continent having kept themselves almost entirely _out_ of either of the wars, third years generally _free_ of any useful Defence knowledge, and Hufflepuffs an inherently _questionable_ choice for a DADA instructor at best, with all due respect to Tonks... Madam Lupin. 

In his absence, Taylor had _completely_ missed the developments in the British Isles and their significance. Then _and_ now. Severus feels that shows in all manner of ways. He also strongly suspects Ilvermorny wanted to get rid of Call-Me-Terry, quick as you please, except it somehow took them two years to do so. Presumably because Americans are... laid back. In Massachusetts. They _can't_ have found him qualified. No one seems to know _what_ he did in the years prior to his brief stint at the American school. Whatever it was, it doesn't seem to have been particularly fruitful. 

Professor Taylor comes waddling up to him where he stands leaning against a wall just outside of the Faculty Lounge. "Wasn't much of a choice," Severus grumbles. 

"Nonsense," Taylor objects, as though he understood... _anything_. " _Nice_ backside." 

"I can assure you, Taylor, that did not play even the slightest role in the decision making process." 

"Ah," he answers in his best approximation of insight, "True love was it?" 

"As Albus said, we are not now, nor have we ever been, in a relationship with one another. This was done solely to protect her in light of the attack Friday." Taylor will never know of or understand Severus' role as a spy, and that's the official line. Severus will faithfully repeat it until he's gone as green his House colour. 

"Still, doesn't _hurt_ that she's such a curvy thing," Taylor assures him sanguinely. 

Severus is appalled. It probably makes a significant difference that Call-Me-Terry hasn't watched her grow up as he has. Somehow the whole thing sits worse with him because of that fact. And then he finds himself wondering how the man could ever have _noticed_ her figure, curvaceous or not, beneath her typically voluminous robes. _He_ certainly hadn't until he'd more or less had his considerable nose rubbed in it, and he likes to think he's generally an observant man. Well, perhaps not of _those_ kinds of things. 

"Absolutely not the point, Taylor, and I'll thank you to refrain from suggesting as much." 

"You posh types are so repressed," Taylor dismisses his objections. As the two of them were actually acquainted as students at Hogwarts, if only slightly, he fails to see how _anyone_ could have taken him for _posh_. And then too, Bellatrix, the poshest save Lucius and Narcissa in his acquaintance, is also inarguably the most _debauched_ individual he's ever met. Small favours. He doesn't think he could take anyone worse. He can't even take her, frankly. So much for Taylor's world views. 

"You're not even her teacher anymore." Apparently Taylor had indeed paid just a _little_ attention. "Although I still don't quite get why you did that, what with the protections in place and all. I mean, that's sort of the _point_ of them, isn't it? But seriously, man, _given_ that you aren't, I _really_ don't see the problem."

Severus can't help thinking that _that_ should probably be something they screen for when hiring, that potential professors _very clearly_ see a problem with... relationships between staff and students. But if they did that, they doubtlessly wouldn't, _couldn't_ have the Headmaster they currently have who had _concocted_ this entire scheme. 

He's just too tired for the frustration he feels. 

"Swotty thing," Taylor keeps going, because there is no God. "But then, you always were, too. I guess you have that in common." Severus just stares at him. _That_ he somehow remembers, but thinks he was _posh_. Call-Me-Terry has clearly conflated some things, or taken a few too many hexes to the head. On consideration, probably the latter. 

"Again, Taylor, this is purely a protection detail. She's a Muggle-born, a friend of Potter's and seriously. At. Risk. As this weekend _demonstrated_."

"There's nothing wrong with being Muggle-born," Taylor replies. It's not even an objection really, more like he's _agreeing_ with Severus' choice, and missing the point _completely_. 

"I didn't suggest there was anything _wrong_ with it, simply that she's in danger _because_ of it. As are _all_ Muggle-borns to some extent in the current climate," his voice drips with not so hidden meaning, but Call-Me-Terry continues not to hear the message, as he's blithely done for the past two months. "You can rely on the situation to worsen, significantly, before it improves, Taylor." 

Still no reaction, and more than a little frustrated Severus finally goes for plain speech, not that he's all that hopeful at this point. If the memory is ever seen by the wrong people, it can be taken as a not so veiled threat and an insult. "The same applies to _you_ ," his long finger draws the shape of the Muggle-born badge on the man's chest. There's no badge there, yet, but it's only a question of time. "I've told you before you shouldn't underestimate the peril. You need to take your task of educating the students, preparing them for what's to come, _seriously_. You shouldn't be teaching fluff. You can't afford to shirk your responsibilities and trifle." 

Unsurprisingly by this point, his words _completely_ miss their mark, rolling off the man like water off a duck's back. 

"Trifle! Ha!" Severus suspects he's not sure of the meaning. _Or_ he's got afters on the brain. At nine in the morning. _Promising_. A glance at Taylor's midsection confirms the slight onset of a paunch. They share a fondness for sweets, but not the same self-discipline. The quality of Hogwarts' kitchens naturally won't be helping the sandy-haired wizard.

"Oh contraire, Snape, my good man," Call-Me-Terry begins, just proving his idiocy. "I learned something from the Muggles stateside that should come in _very_ handy, very handy indeed, and I mean to see the students here learn it. It's called 'duck and cover', and it's our N.E.W.T.s project for the year. You heard correctly, a _project_! I take my job _very_ seriously, very seriously indeed, and will not rest until they've learned it, every last one."

Severus hasn't a clue what that's supposed to be, but feels certain if it were remotely _useful_ , he'd have at least _heard_ of it. There may be some conceit involved, but he's earned the right to it. Additionally, he's having a hard time accepting _Muggle_ knowledge as a particularly useful defence against the _Dark Arts_. Shy of weaponry, he supposes. It also seems highly imprudent to rely on a single spell... 

Be that as it may, he has too many other problems to worry overmuch about it. He's complained before about the DADA program, only to have his objections fall on deaf ears, and ultimately, this needs to be something _Albus_ sorts. It's not like he has the authority for it anyway. Merlin knows, _he'd_ fire the man.

But one thing's for certain, his opinion that Taylor's a blithering idiot just keeps getting reinforced.  
  


They haven't gotten far from the Lounge where they stand discussing... No, he won't dignify the exchange as a 'discussion'. They aren't more than a few steps down from the Lounge when Severus suddenly feels a strong wave of relief. 

The fucking bond again. How _nice_ for her. She's probably just discovered a way to make up for lost class time. He's busy hating life more than a little when Taylor gives him a nudge and with a jerk of his head, indicates something over Severus' shoulder.

He turns, and whom should he find lurking there but Miss Granger.  
  


He can only assume this is a manifestation of the Loyalty Vow.

  



	41. 11 10d Monday - Sorting Staff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Severus and Hermione, Hagrid, Poppy, Terrence 'Call-Me-Terry' Taylor, Miscellaneous Faculty_

Hermione's finally found him. She stands waiting, not eager to interrupt the Professor's conversation. She's just _incredibly_ relieved he seems... not severely damaged. She hadn't known what to expect. He's leaning against the wall again in a way that isn't encouraging; he doesn't do that unless he must. She knows this. His posture is excellent, he's a proud man, and she's seen him stand almost unaffected after some frightening treatment, so she knows he can't be _alright_ , but at least he's _upright_. That makes for a pleasant change to how he'd spent most of the weekend. 

_Taylor gives him a nudge and with a jerk of his head, indicates something over Severus' shoulder._

_He turns, and whom should he find lurking there but Miss Granger._  
  


_He can only assume this is a manifestation of the Loyalty Vow._

Apparently considering their conversation ended, Taylor walks back to the Staff Lounge. Once he has passed Miss Granger, he makes a point of _very_ visibly turning to examine some of her finer... qualities. Luckily, Hermione doesn't notice, although that's probably half the reason he did it; she's only got eyes for the Professor, preoccupied, as she is, with trying to assess his condition. 

Taylor nods decisively, gives Severus a satisfied smile and a wink, and calls back, "I'm not wrong." And now Severus find himself trying not to look, and hating Taylor just that little bit more. It's sort of like not thinking about a polar bear on command. 

"Miss Granger, what brings you here?" Severus enquires, as though in passing, vaguely hoping she'll have the decency to pretend she hadn't been summoned by the bond. 

"I thought I felt... How are you, Sir? Is everything... Did everything go... alright?" She's not sure if he will appreciate her knowing the things the bond gives away. In fact, she's rather sure he won't. She bites her lip apprehensively, nervous in equal parts both about his condition and his response. 

"Hagrid didn't take it well," he answers in typically understated fashion. 

"Oh!" She can only imagine. Hagrid really is a dear. Well, except for mangling the Professor it would seem. Even more nervously she now asks, "What did you do to him?"

"What did I do to him? Nothing," he answers fairly evenly, but Occludes ferociously and _despite_ that is nevertheless somewhat offended at the question. Not that he expects better, but still...

"Really?" She sounds somewhat shocked. 

"Oh, how I love the note of surprise," he deadpans. She's fairly certain that's sarcasm. 

That's the second time in minutes she's thought worse of him than he is, and she's wondering _why_. First Malfoy, now Hagrid. She thinks it must be due to her frightening dreams last night. She _assumes_ she'd been trying to come to terms with some of the horrifying things he'd told her yesterday. She doesn't consider how the bond might affect her sleep. But somehow those dreams left her thinking, _feeling_ , worse about him. 

That stops _now_. 

"I'm sorry, I just have a hard time picturing you holding still for abuse." 

"If I hadn't, it would only have escalated, and then where would it end? With the entire staff in the Infirmary?" It's a perfectly _reasonable_ sentiment, no question, that she's somehow _not_ expecting to hear from _him_. That's probably because of what she takes for an almost pacifistic element she has trouble reconciling with him, because she knows he's definitely not that. Which makes her think.

She senses she's somehow viewing that incorrectly. It's not pacifism in the least, it's pragmatism and a willingness to sacrifice for what he perceives as the greater good. It follows perfectly from the other things he does, that she _knows_ he does, and she doesn't quite understand why she's having such difficulty seeing him differently, more clearly, for who he _is_.

They... Her _friends_ have spent too many years vilifying him for unrelated and in retrospect rather trivial reasons, and she's having a bit of trouble adjusting, catching up. _That_ doesn't seem like her, and so she asks herself 'why'. Very little contemplation is required to realise that in _her_ friendships, the people she has _chosen_ to include in her life, and one would hope, thinks presumably... _well_ of, there's frequently a lack of regard for others on display. Evident as recently as a quarter of an hour ago, even. It makes it that much more surprising to discover just _that_ regard in the curmudgeonly man before her. 

_He_ manages, only just, not to tease her about how she'd prepare for her N.E.W.T.s were all of staff so indisposed. Whether he realises it or not, that's probably only because he can feel her concern, apparently for him as well as Hagrid. And even _he_ would have to admit, she _had_ been concerned before she had any reason to fear for _Hagrid's_ welfare. 

Instead he continues quietly and unexpectedly openly, "I'm forced to 'hold still for' it rather often. For... _them_." Hermione recognises the truth of those words as soon as she hears them. "Hagrid meant well, it seemed... _wrong_ to... punish him for it." Her feelings of guilt only increase. "If I can take maltreatment from people I _despise_ , I should be able to do so for those I consider... _friends_." 

Her free hand reaches almost automatically into her pocket and closes tightly around the miniaturised phial that holds her top from Friday, and she concentrates on what this man did for her, went through for her. She thinks about the shape he was in at the time, the state of his chest, what the scars reveal about his past, apparently all because he accepts absurd amounts of abuse _for_ the Order. It sets something to rights in her thoughts. 

"'For' friends maybe. But not 'from' them. Friends shouldn't treat you like that." She's angry. She's furious, in fact. He smirks a bit meanly, but he's in pain and it really isn't helping his disposition any. But it's not like he's the only doormat present; he's in excellent company here. 

He can't help thinking of any number of times staff had gossiped, ad nauseam, about how _Potter_ or _Weasley_ or _both_ hadn't treated _her_ all that well. Hagrid himself had practically sung epic ballads on the subject while wringing his hands, and Severus assumes he doesn't know the half of it. On the other hand, he'd have to admit he's never heard of them breaking _her_ ribs, and she's indignant on _his_ behalf, and for once he manages not to self-sabotage and holds his tongue. 

"Are you alright?" She asks softly. 

"Poppy has seen to me," he half answers. 

"I guess that's something of a habit for her," she looks frankly worried as she says it. "Is she still in the staff room?"

"Unless she returned to the Great Hall by the other door. She hasn't passed me." In fact, _no one_ had. Apparently they'd deemed it unadvisable. Cowards.

She puts her books down next to him, draws her wand and Engorgios the bunch and then asks, "Would you mind terribly keeping an eye on my books? Maybe just take a seat? That'd probably be easier." She's definitely not a Slytherin. He assumes that's Gryffindor for he 'still looks shaken'. 

He's a mite surprised to find himself taking the proffered seat, and is reminded a little uncomfortably of their shared adventure from Friday by the way she now stands before him, examining him, checking for damage. It seems a reversal of fortunes somehow. Involuntarily he thinks of her hands running through his hair, across his face, and it's a stark contrast to now when she all too consciously avoids contact. Which is clearly preferable, of course. 

Satisfied, or something like it, with what she sees, she nods her head determinedly. "Do you need anything? If she's still there that is?" She enquires. 

He wouldn't dream of admitting it, and he's only minutes from his own supply of anything she's likely to be able to procure here, so he just shakes his head in reply, "No, I'm quite alright."

There's a flash to her eyes echoed across the bond that tells him she doesn't believe a word of it. "I'll be back in a few minutes," she reassures him, which strikes him as amusing that she'd consider it reassuring, and then even odder when he notes it somehow is. And then she turns and heads for the faculty room, and again he finds his eyes trying to slip to the backside whose virtues Taylor had extolled, while he battles to keep them firm... _firmly_ on the back of her head. Taylor's an _arse_.  
  


Hmm. Poor choice of words. 

She straightens, and with a determined set to her shoulders, she steps into the Faculty Lounge.

* * *

  


When Taylor returned to the staff room, he'd been quick to report that Snape's bondmate was in the Hallway. A few of the more reckless types had crowded around the entrance, somehow ignoring the fact if they can see Snape, _he_ is perfectly capable of seeing _them_ should he turn his head. Not _one_ thought to cast a Notice-Me-Not, including the DADA Instructor. Instead this brain trust stands, snooping in the doorway, only to have to scramble as Miss Granger approaches. 

Cooler heads might have prevailed, but Albus and the remaining Heads of Houses had already returned to the Great Hall, and at least half their heads aren't particularly cool to begin with. But they've had more time to come to terms with the news, and they've gone ahead to see to the students. 

There's a sense that they need to keep an eye on things; the teachers are under orders not to speak of this until it's announced to the student body, but as agitated as they are, there's always a danger someone might slip. Sybill can undoubtedly be relied upon to make several not so veiled predictions in the interim. Albus probably should have insisted on a Wand Oath, to stave off the imbroglio that's far too likely to ensue, but adults are good deal less malleable than children in that regard and considerably less willing to take such Oaths. Instead, he's relying on luck. 

It's probably best just to see about getting the students to their classrooms and give the other teachers a little more time to cool down before they're confronted with them. 

Hearing Hermione was in the hallway, Hagrid had shifted closer towards the door to catch a glimpse of her. With his size, he has no trouble standing at the rear and looking over everyone else's heads. For one thing, he really needs to reassure himself that she's not hurt. 

What Professor Dumbledore had said... An attack! You-Know-Who's Death Eaters! Here! It was worrisome, it was, and he just wants to know the poor girl isn't hurt. He would also kind of like to know how she stands to the Potions Master, and he'd _really_ like to know that because of how he reacted before. He shouldn't have done that. It's bad enough to have angered Professor Snape. He'd hate to have Hermione mad at him, too. He wouldn't like that at all. 

In that position, he's clearly visible to both of them now, particularly as all his colleagues standing in front of him have scarpered. But Hagrid's eyes remain somewhat shamefully focused on the floor as she approaches. There's a Silencing Charm on the doorway, which means Severus can't hear a word of what's going on in there, but he watches as Miss Granger marches into the staff room, without permission, and stalks up to Hagrid, without wavering, and evidently unleashes a tirade of the first water on him. Judging by the way her hair crackles, it's quite the tirade at that. She's not really _that_ short, but she is very thin, and it makes her seem even tinier. He finds her so next to himself. Next to Hagrid, well... It's almost absurd to watch her tiny form completely cow his gigantic one. 

And yet she does. 

Severus can practically see Hagrid shrinking. Her finger keeps stabbing his chest, more like his stomach, really, and then Hagrid is actually in tears. Severus has no way of knowing, obviously, but those tears come at the thought that she had been in danger again and something could have happened to her, completely missing the point, in best Hagrid fashion, that something actually _had_. But as he stands there crying and apologising, she folds him into a hug. The sight of it gives Severus a queer turn, and leaves him feeling possibly more strangely than Taylor's comments had. It really seems everyone else on staff has a better relationship to his... wife than he does.  
  


Barring Sybill, that is.

* * *

  


Hermione stands there hugging Hagrid as he cries. His huge hand fanned across her back actually covers a significant part of her spine, and his tears are just as proportionately large. She's getting rather damp under the deluge, and yet it's a comfort somehow. The Professor was right, of course. The half-giant had had the best of motives for his attack on the Potions Master. Hagrid had been concerned for her. It's hard to stay angry with him in the face of that. 

And _yet_... They'd been _told_ the Professor has acted in her interests, had _rescued_ her, and still Hagrid chose to doubt him. He's not the only one. Yesterday it had been Professor McGonagall. She has no doubt today there were others. She's seen this behaviour from _Harry_ often enough, the willingness, the readiness to believe the worst of the Professor, no matter what's said to the contrary, and it really is time someone put a stop to it. 

No better time than here and now, and she's just the witch for it. 

Between his sobs, Hagrid manages to choke out, "I'm so glad you're safe, 'ermione." 

She smiles at him gently as she steps back to better take in the rest of those present, but very clearly tells him so all can hear, "You owe him an apology, Hagrid." 

"No worries, 'ermione, I know I do. I was wrong, I shouldn't a done that. And I apologised, I did. I just don't think it mattered much, yeh know? It was as though he didn't really hear me."

"Then you need to _make_ yourself heard, Hagrid. He deserved better from you. From all of you," she accuses on speculation, but off the guilty looks she sees around the room, and the scarcely contained satisfaction on Madam Pomfrey's face, she suspects she's right to have done so. 

"He rescued me, he's continuing to protect me, and that's how you treat him?" For the majority, her tone, her words are sufficient. She's obviously not some half-witted creature being taken advantage of. But one or two have axes to grind, and won't let it go at that. 

"Miss Granger," Professor Trelawney begins in reproach.

Hermione gives her a slightly smug smile as she corrects her, "Madam Snape." It's every bit as effective with those present as it was with Professor McGonagall, save Professor Trelawney, who refuses to be deterred. 

"How unexpected to see _you_ in the _Faculty_ Lounge." 

Hermione's smile probably crosses the boundary from smug to cruel, it's mostly in the eyes, but most wouldn't notice, not expecting it of her, and she _really_ has run out of patience with people and just can't help herself. She's had to stomach _enough_ this weekend, she won't stand around and allow anyone to abuse her any further. The same goes for the Professor. It stops _here_. 

"I should have thought _you_ of all people _should have_ seen it coming." Professor Trelawney looks stricken at that, but she _had_ practically handed her the line. Hermione feels no qualms. It's ludicrous and _infuriating_ that these people find it _acceptable_ to give her or Professor Snape anything less than their full support. They're the _victims_ in this. "As the bondmate of a faculty member, I took the liberty of letting myself in."

"I'm not certain those privileges are transitive," Professor Vector comes to her colleague's aid, but she sounds just a little amused. The Arithmancy Professor has always liked Hermione, and as with Hagrid, her negative response to the news had primarily been motivated by concern for her student. Able to see for herself that her concerns were misplaced, Septima now regrets the tone she took with Severus. 

"Well as long as you're not _certain_ they're intransitive, we'll agree I'm exactly where I should be. That's the second time in as many days that he's suffered abuse at the hands of a colleague for the sacrifices he's made for me, if you think I'm going to stand idly by..."

"No, by all means, Madam Snape, speak your piece," Professor Vector encourages her, and Professor Trelawney withdraws a little more now that her perceived support is gone. It doesn't feel good to be standing there without it. Unfortunately, she doesn't make the connection to how the _assault victim_ in front of her might feel faced with _her own_ behaviour.

"Maybe Professor Dumbledore failed to get this across, but _both_ of us were attacked by Death Eaters Friday. He rescued me despite life threatening injuries, and struggled to save me until the point of _collapse_." Professor Trelawney softly snorts her disbelief, and Hermione rounds on her, indicating the Matron, "You don't have to take my word for it, you can ask Madam Pomfrey for confirmation." 

Very few still feel the need by now to look to the Mediwitch to confirm that, but she nods her complete agreement. "We were extremely fortunate, both that he was able to recover from that, and that he was successful in chasing off her attackers before he succumbed to his wounds."

Hermione takes up her cause again, "And _this_ is how you respond?

"This stops here and now. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume until now you were only trying to help, but I want it made perfectly clear, you're not helping _me_ with this. That's for the record. Anything more, from _any_ of you, from this point on, is _solely_ down to your own questionable agendas, and very obviously _not_ intended for _my_ benefit. Don't even try to pretend it is. The _only_ one who helped me is out there, and being _mistreated_ by the people I'd expect to see _applauding_ him for his bravery. It's simply deplorable."  
  


And with that, Madam Pomfrey's arm comes to rest around Hermione's shoulders, she gives the little witch a squeeze, scolding the others, "Don't you have classes you need to get to?" As they turn to leave, towards the Great Hall she notes with some derision, she leans close to the young woman and whispers, "Good show!"

* * *

  


Severus is still seated in the hallway. Truth be told, he's begun cringing. He hasn't a clue what's being said in there, but he can't imagine it won't make things worse. Still, it's probably nice that she thought to try. 

Taylor is the first to leave, and again has no hesitation heading towards Severus. He probably hasn't had enough encounters with the man's abrasive barbs to see the wisdom in taking the room's other exit. Notably none of their coworkers follow. With a wide grin, he approaches Severus and says, "Bit of a firecracker, too. I hope you know what you're doing..." And then waddles off in the direction of his classroom, laughing. Apparently _he_ enjoyed the spectacle. 

Miss Granger follows very shortly after. She hands Severus a Pain Relieving Potion, which he silently accepts. "Madam Pomfrey had some with her." He doesn't argue, he just quaffs it and Vanishes the phial. There's no point in compounding his problems. 

He rises and casts an Finite Incantatem on her books, which he then lifts from the floor with a Wingardium Leviosa. She reaches for them, but he puts up a hand to stop her. His hands are empty, and she was kind enough to try to fight his battles for him, and somehow he feels the thing to do is take them for her. Anything else and he'd feel like a cad. "Which class do you have first?" 

"Charms." 

"Of course." He should have known - he _did_ know; it's the class she takes... she _took_ before his. That all his N.E.W.T.s students have before his. He's just not used to having to think about his _wife's class schedule_. It'll take some adjustment. 

Her books secured under his arm, he turns and heads towards the Grand Staircase. Hermione bites back a smile at the sight of him lugging her texts. Naturally, that's what Lightening Charms are for, he'd have to be a bit of an idiot not to use one with the pile she had. 

He can feel her amusement and feels the need to tease. "So he breaks three of my ribs and you _embrace_ him. I shouldn't like to think what you'd have done had he hospitalised me." 

His tone is dry, but the bond lets her know there's no bite to it, so she chuckles and suggests, "Baked him a cake?"

"I thought as much." 

"No, trust me," she laughs, "that's a punishment. Worse than his Rock Cakes. By far." It gets her a slight smile in response. 

When they reach the stairs she'll need to take to Charms, he hands her back her books, the Lightening Charm still in place. That gets _him_ a smile. With a slight nod, he wishes her a good day and makes his way back to the dungeons for his first class. He shakes his head as he goes, thinking about the scene in the Lounge. He can't imagine she helped matters any, but he's decided he appreciates the effort. 

But it seems Hermione, at least, was heard. Tomorrow morning in addition to Rock Cakes, inedible, from Hagrid, there will be a variety of presents from his colleagues waiting in his office. Some wine, more flowers from Pomona, elf wine from Filius, a gift voucher from Flourish & Blotts from Septima, Ogdens from Taylor, a bottle of champagne from Hooch who still doesn't quite get it, or maybe she's just more practical... It's a pity Severus won't be there to see it.

  



	42. 11 10e Monday - The Lull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Severus, Hermione, Ron, Harry, Filius, Bloody Baron, Zabini, Miscellaneous Students_

Double Charms is more like one and a half Charms to begin with, the students somehow sense... _something's_ in the air, and in the end Hermione thinks they get even less accomplished than in a typical _single_ Charms class. That annoys her no end. There are only seven more months left until N.E.W.T.s, after all. 

Professor Flitwick does his best, she supposes, but it's hard to cut across the excited voices of the students. It's not like he could silence them all, or make himself louder... Hmm. 

He asks the largely inattentive class if anyone can explain Golpalott's Third Law. There's a moment of confusion, those with any idea, there are only eleven present, seem to think that might have been a Potions thing, and it throws some of the usual volunteers enough that Hermione's hand is the only one in the air. 

Malfoy _would have_ known, but he's... _busy_ elsewhere. _Nott_ knows, but he tends to keep a low profile. Harry thinks he _should_ know. He seems to recall impressing Slughorn with this, but all he remembers is that 'Bezoars' is the answer, except that it isn't. 

"Yes, Miss..." Professor Flitwick doesn't _quite_ call on her, but he points his little hand and gestures at her, and Hermione has never needed much of an invitation to answer questions. 

"Golpalott's Third Law states that the antidote for a poison that consists of a mixture of other poisons must consist of more than the sum of the component antidotes." She strokes her hair absently at the recollection. 

Well, Harry was right. It _wasn't_ Bezoars. He's glad he let Hermione field that one. 

"Very good, Miss..." Professor Flitwick struggles again. "I should have known _you'd_ know your Potions material. Ten points to Gryffindor."

"Well, at least he got that part right. What's wrong with him today anyway?" Harry asks somewhat rhetorically. 

"Who cares, he got the bit that matters," Ron is quick to answer. 

Hermione, who had been pleased with the compliment and her point gain, feels her smile fade at that. She turns to Ron in annoyance, but is fortunately distracted when the diminutive Professor continues.

"Now you needn't worry, old Flitwick hasn't _completely_ lost the plot. I _know_ we're not in Potions, and I don't take myself for Professor Snape," he chuckles at his own attempt at humour, and then inadvertently catches Hermione's eye and begins to cough. The fit goes on long enough that most of the Hufflepuffs and at least one Gryffindor begin to wonder if he might be choking, and Harry wonders if a Bezoar would do more harm than good, but Flitwick finally gets it back under control again. "Sorry, my dear, I didn't mean to imply..." He's looking straight at the Gryffindor contingent, but most of them naturally have no idea _why_. Hermione sinks a little lower in her chair. 

"Now where was I? Oh yes, in _Charms_ , we have a related theory. As part of George Glasgow's Grand Unifying Theory of Stuff, the Seventh Law similarly states that the counterspell for a combination of Charms must, how did Miss..., um, put it? It 'must consist of more than the sum of the component' counterspells."

Padma's hand is up, and oddly Professor Flitwick has _no problems_ remembering _her_ name. "Yes, Miss Patil?" Undoubtably because she's in his House.

"And Laws One through Six? Will we need to learn those?"

"Ah, yes, well, there are only Laws One and Three beyond the Seventh. Does anyone know why? Miss... er?"

Hermione again supplies the answer, "One, three and seven are Arithmantically sound. Glasgow was a great fan of Arithmancy, although it didn't factor into the G.U.T.S."

"Guts!?" Ron's trying to stifle a laugh.

"G.U.T.S." she hisses in correction, not that it helps.

"No, indeed it did _not_. Very good, Miss..., ten more points to Gryffindor. In fact, you will _not_ need to learn Laws One and Three, at least not for _this_ class, as those theories apply to Transfigurations and Herbology respectively. Hence 'Unifying'. 

"But it's probably only right to mention, calling it the 'Grand Unifying Theory of Stuff' is a bit of a lie, as Law One has since been disproven, and it really only addresses two disciplines these days. So it's probably more of a mediocre theory that doesn't unify much," he chortles. "But what's in a name, wouldn't you agree?"

"I'll say. He hasn't gotten _yours_ right _once_ today..." Harry whispers to Hermione. She now has a pretty good idea of what might be wrong, and feels that's confirmed when he has no trouble _whatsoever_ with any of the _other_ students' names. It probably helps that Salome Smith, née Perks, isn't in N.E.W.T.s Charms. Not coincidentally, Hermione doesn't raise her hand again during that class. 

Michael Corner asks a question that sends old Flitwick off on a tangent for most of what remains of class. Terry Boot prompts him again when he seems about to flag. The man's too good natured by half. Hermione wonders sometimes if it isn't a deliberate strategy. She's noticed the Ravenclaws frequently ask questions she can't believe they don't know the answers to and waste a good deal of class time, but she can't imagine _why_ they _would_. 

"As I was saying before, the Charms portion of the G.U.T.S seems quite sound, quite sound indeed. I can't impress upon you enough how _crucial_ that can be when trying to counter..."

A Tempus chimes, and almost as one, the class rises. The Professor fights to make himself heard, " _Very_ important..." but it just gets lost in the commotion. 

"Thank Merlin!" Ron lets out a sigh of relief. "I thought class would never end." 

"You never know, Ronald, just when that might come in handy..."

"I can _guarantee_ you, I _won't_ regret it," he assures her. She fervently hopes it's on their N.E.W.T.s.

"Oh, Miss..." Professor Flitwick calls her. Not wanting her friends to hear what she fears he might have to say, she tells them to go ahead, she'll meet them in the hallway. They shrug and take their leave.

Once the door closes behind them, the little Charms Master addresses her, "I apologise, Madam Snape. I didn't mean to be rude, but I assumed you wouldn't want news of your bonding getting out?"

She blinks and considers how to respond... _politely_. "No, Sir. Quite the _contrary_. The whole _point_ of it was for _protection purposes_. For it to _provide_ the kind of protection we hope it will offer, it's... _helpful_ if it _does_ get out. It's _imperative_ , in fact." 

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I couldn't imagine... I just didn't think... Well, you and Severus, that is... I didn't think you'd welcome the attention," he finally manages, and she relaxes slightly. He's correct, neither of them will, and his intent wasn't malicious. That makes a big difference in her book. 

"It's quite alright, Professor. I gather Professor Dumbledore wanted to be the one to announce it anyway. It's probably just as well." She makes a mental note not to answer any more questions in her other classes today in order to avoid similar situations. Not that she was all that likely to try to answer anything in DADA these days, but still. Merlin knows, she'd had more luck with that when Umbridge was teaching. She looks at her hand. Well, perhaps not.

Of course, _now_ she would normally have Potions. And she has no idea what to tell the boys. If she'd been thinking, she'd have sent them ahead to class and left them in the belief she'd missed it thanks to Professor Flitwick. Now she'll need to come up with something else.  
  


Bugger.

* * *

  


They make their way to Potions. Ron is babbling on about... whatever. She thinks it might be Quidditch. Normally she'd be able to tell for sure by how much it bores her to tears, that's pretty much the acid test, but she's too much on edge trying to think of what she's going to say to them when they get to class. 

She'd given some thought to excusing herself beforehand. 'Witches' Issues' usually does the trick nicely and is near enough to the truth. Neither would be likely to want to hear more. Or she could have claimed a headache and said she was going to the Infirmary, except she didn't feel like listening to any teasing about taking up residence there. _That_ would have been fairly predictable. _And_ highly frustrating. 

But she'd sort of been hoping to get back to chambers, take the shower she hadn't had this morning and see how Crooks is settling in. And honestly, she really _is_ looking forward to trying out her new shower. Which is stupid. It's just a shower. But it's _hers_.

She's also a little nervous about how Sunny is doing with the Half-Kneazle in his domain. It hardly seems fair to just deposit Crooks there and then run off and leave the poor house elf to fend for himself like that. That house elves are _exceptionally_ gifted at magic and almost _definitely_ liable to be able to defend themselves against anything a Half-Kneazle can do somehow fails to cross her mind. 

She's also still a little nervous about walking around the dungeons on her own, and so she uses the boys as an unwitting honour guard, which leaves her now trying to come up with a last minute excuse. 

Preoccupied as she is, she doesn't notice where they are until she's almost on top of the entry to her new home. It's the wards that alert her to it first, because she's busy looking down and doesn't even see the door as they approach. It's interesting to see how neither of the boys react at all to the massive slab of ornately carved wood. This time yesterday, she wouldn't have either. She'd have walked past it, like they are now, none the wiser. 

She finds herself drawing closer to the wall because the wards are stronger the nearer to the door she is. They feel lovely, and she's having a hard time just passing by. What she _really_ wants to do is stop and stay there, or better yet, _enter_. They're so... strong. So... _unmistakable_. They're _impossible_ to overlook. She doesn't see how the boys _can_. Which is also stupid. It's just like the door. And _she_ wouldn't have noticed them twenty-four hours ago either.  
  


But she can't resist a little test.

"Harry," she calls out, interrupting something on... probably the Cannons again. The world could stand in flames and Ron would still be banging on about the bloody Cannons. The boys pause. "Could you come here a moment?" Harry is kind enough to comply. "Do you feel anything here?" She asks him.

"No. Well, I mean, the floor and stuff, but that's the same stone as over there, right? Uh, is this a trick question?"

"No, over here," she puts his hand on the wall, closer to the entrance. Somehow she can't bring herself to take him to the door itself. She doesn't even think that's the Loyalty Vow, because she's fairly certain the Notice-Me-Not would sort that. She just doesn't want to, _can't_ bring herself to lead him to the door. It seems somehow... private. And again, given the Notice-Me-Not, her response doesn't make much sense to her. 

"And now I feel... _wall_. I don't get it, 'Mione. What am I supposed to feel?"

"I thought I felt something, kind of like a hot spot here," she dodges. 

"Sorry," he replies. "I don't feel anything. I could check the map, if you like?"

"No!" She responds, a little too quickly. She's really not that good at this, and she should have thought of his blasted map. "No, I guess I'm just overtired." She continues in a rush, hoping he'll forget all about it, "Never mind me. We better get moving. We don't want to be late." 

Ron's making disparaging noises; she's still not paying attention. It's taking some concentration to deliberately drag herself away from the... her, _their_ door. 

They've just reached the entrance to the Potions classroom when she hears clanking in the near distance. She smiles in recognition. Still not particularly inspired, she tells the boys to go ahead without her, she's forgotten... _something_ , and turns to head back the way they came. 

She's been acting oddly, even for 'Mione, but they've no real desire to be late and deal with Snape, and then the Bloody Baron puts in an appearance, and they've possibly even _less_ desire to deal with _him_ , so they stop standing around staring after her and enter the classroom. 

"Potter, Weasley, so good of you to join us."  
  


Bloody hell. 'Mione has made them a little late.

* * *

  


Potter, amusingly, feels the need to explain Miss Granger's absence. It seems she hadn't supplied them with a particularly good explanation, bless, she's _really_ not very good at this, and now the Boy-Who-Lived-to-Lie sits there telling him how she's forgotten her homework and will be back at _any_ moment, she just needs to return to the Gryffindor Tower. In as much as that could explain her absence for almost half the class, he could have done worse. 

Still, Severus has the advantage of knowing Miss Granger _won't_ appear and _why_ , and he can't quite help himself. "Five points from Gryffindor for lying to staff." He's trying to decide if _covering for a friend_ or _lying to him_ was the primary motive; with Potter, it's a toss up. Either way, at five points, Potter got off lightly. 

"Is that a punishable thing?" Ron asks Harry in a whisper. "I thought that was pretty much default."

"Shh!" Harry just tries to shush him.

"Five more for speaking out of turn. First you were late, and now you insist on disrupting class. Shall we all just sit here and wait for you both to get settled?" There's a snicker from the front, Nott and Zabini. He can't even stand looking at the boys. Sadly a Notice-Me-Not is out of the question.

* * *

  


Hermione has only just left the boys when the Baron comes clanking towards her. She's a little shy. She's never spoken to him before today. In point of fact, she _still_ hasn't spoken to him. She hadn't even managed to get a single word out when they were introduced this morning, which is a mistake she means to rectify. 

She stands waiting for him to come closer. That's not exactly a reaction he's accustomed to. "Sir, I..." Her voice cracks and fails her. It's no different than speaking to Nearly-Headless Nick. No different at all. If she keeps telling herself that, in a few years she might even come to believe it. She's supposed to be a Gryffindor, she can _do_ this. "I wanted to thank you. For what you did."

He's a Slytherin, or _was_. Or _is_ , as he's the House ghost. That must count for something. His first inclination is to say 'then do so', but he senses... Ha! It never ceases to puzzle him that he can _sense_ anything anymore, but somehow he _does_ feel that she isn't hedging and he shouldn't shut her down out of hand. So he warily waits her out. 

She _isn't_ a Slytherin, and it doesn't take long. "I really appreciate your going to get help for me Friday."

He's thinking about it. It's true, he _had_ done that. But his motives are a little murky. He _hadn't_ wanted her to come to harm, certainly not _that_ , but he couldn't honestly say that was his _first_ priority either. The entire male half of their seventh years had been a hair's breadth from getting themselves expelled. He'd have been remiss in his duties as a House ghost had he turned a blind eye to that. 

He inclines his head towards her slowly in response, a sort of protracted nod. He views it as acknowledgment of what she said, but not quite acceptance of her gratitude. He's frankly uncertain he's deserving of it. 

He's trying to think when anyone last thanked him for anything. The Head of House does. He thinks the man means it. It's part of the reason he's now keeping an eye on the man's wife. The Headmaster does. That usually feels more... pro forma. Once in a while some of the other Professors express thanks after he... handles Peeves for them, but that seems... transactional. He can't recall a _student_ thanking him, sincerely, since he helped young Black find the Room of Hidden Things.  
  


That was a _very_ long time ago. But perhaps not so long measured over the span of his afterlife. 

He accompanies her in silence, managing not to rattle his chains for the duration - he's noticed how nervy the young woman is, the short distance to the door to her chambers. 

"Good day, Madam," he wishes her in parting in that whisper of his. 

And the smile she gives him in return seems unexpectedly sincere.

* * *

  


"Everyone turn in your scrolls on alternative methods of preparation of Pearl Dust. Come now, hold them up." He summons ten scrolls to him, _no one_ is foolish enough not to complete his assignments. In _that_ light, Potter's excuse wasn't all that ill considered. "Zabini, where's yours?"

The tall Slytherin is searching furiously through his satchel. To no avail, of course. Severus had vanished its ashes himself a scant two and a half hours ago. This is fun to watch, and he needs more fun in his life. Zabini's dark complexion unfortunately camouflages some of the blush of embarrassment Severus is quite sure should be evident by now. "You had all weekend to prepare, do you mean to say you thought you didn't _have to_?"

"No, Sir, I..."

"Perhaps you thought because _I_ am your Head of House, I'd be more favourably disposed towards this display of... sloth?"

"Uh, _no_ , Sir, not at all. I _did_ it, I just can't _find_ it."

"So not slothful, merely _slovenly_. Hmm. But you believe you're adequately prepped, do you? Very well, shall we see?" Blaise looks uncomfortable, but not _uncertain_. His conscience is clear, and he knows he's done his work. "Where would you expect to source black pearls?"

"Japan," he answers with confidence, as Severus knew he would. It's the advantage of having _read_ the boy's assignment before Incendioing it. 

"And you claim you're _au fait_. Shall I give you a hint? Black pearls are also known as _Tahitian_ pearls. Miss Davis, where would one expect to find them?"

Ron leans over and whispers to Harry, "Tahiti?"

"French Polynesia," Tracey answers decisively. 

"Now _that_ sounds like a trick question," Ron complains under his breath.

"Five points to Slytherin for the correct answer, and five more points _from_ Gryffindor for continuing to speak out of turn." Ron's about to complain when Harry claps a hand on his arm and gives him a warning look. "And you, Zabini. I can't say how disappointed I am. But I am certain Mr. Filch will enjoy the pleasure of your company next Saturday."

"So how come _he_ doesn't lose points for 'lying to staff' about his homework?" Ron whinges.

"Ron, for the love of... He got _detention_ , with _Filch_. I'm _sure_ that's worse, now just be _quiet_."

"I'm afraid this can only be a sign of the impending apocalypse, but I'm forced to agree with Potter. Weasley, _do_ be quiet." Ron again moves to object, but Harry's fingers tighten almost painfully on his arm. "And five more points from each of you for this ongoing display of what I must assume is verbal diarrhoea." At that Harry just gives up and casts a Langlock on Ron; there was no hope of weathering this otherwise, and the Muffliato is too noticeable to use around someone like Snape with its buzz. He'd spot it in an instant. 

"Why does no one else have this problem? You two are the weakest students by far in this course, and yet you _persist_ in disrupting class and disturbing the others. Any suggestions as to why that might be? Weasley?" Severus recognises the signs of his own spell quite clearly, and couldn't resist. It comes as no surprise when Weasley can't get as much as a peep out. "Ah, I see you're finally learning to hold your tongue. Commendable." What he _is_ is beet red. He's a few breaths from a coronary. It's... _delightful_. 

Severus sits there contemplating if he couldn't simply perform a Langlock on _all_ of his students _every_ day, only lifting it to let them answer his questions. After they've raised their hands like good little students, and he's called on them in an orderly fashion of course. His day dreams are a great deal more appealing than the things that haunt his nights. And now he's seriously wondering if there's anything in the school rules that explicitly forbids silencing the students. Tempting. 

Damn.  
  


But he keeps it in the back of his mind, a warm, happy thought as he suffers through the rest of class.

  



	43. 11 10f Monday - Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Severus and Hermione, Harry, Ron, Crooks_

Entering the wards isn't _quite_ as good as having them keyed for her, but it's still _pretty damn good_. That puts another smile on her face. She manages to get herself out of the doorway and into chambers, partly because she doesn't want anyone to see her there, but mostly because she consoles herself that she can repeat the process at _any_ time she likes. She's able to admit she probably will. Gratuitously. 

_Often_.  
  


As she enters the room and looks around, she's relieved to note there aren't bits of house elf strewn about the place. Again she neglects to consider that the ability to Apparate pretty much precludes being eaten by a Half-Kneazle. But Crooks has proven his aptitude at hunting spiders, clever boy, showing a complete absence of fear unlike certain other gingers she could name. That Ron's phobia is no more or less valid than her own fear of heights escapes her. She _may_ still be annoyed from earlier. At some point one would hope she might notice the frequency with which that occurs and take steps, but she's got a rather large blind spot where her friends are concerned. It might speak for her, if not her learning curve. 

Once she's further into the room, she spots her familiar. Crookshanks, she's a little panicked to see, has curled himself into the _Professor's_ chair, where he's now snoozing comfortably. 

" _Crooks_!" All that gets her is a half-opened eye. Just the one. "How _could_ you?!" The second eye opens, and he glances at her. Balefully. She fails to register it entirely. "After I told him, _assured him_ , you'd _behave_!" She might actually be wailing. 

His sleep now thoroughly disturbed, Crooks stretches and yawns, and gives her his best disdainful stare, but he'll have to up his game considerably given who his new flatmate is. She's undeterred and pulls, shoves, pushes him from the seat. " _This_ ," she indicates... _her_ chair, "is _my_ seat. You can sit here all you like, but stay. Out. Of _his_. Chair. Do you hear me?"

Still eager to take her shower and now not trusting her familiar further than she could throw him, not that she ever _would_ , but which isn't far as he's a rather weighty boy, she drags him into her room and shuts the door behind them. Scolding noises can still be heard from the other side of the door. Eventually it will occur to Severus to put up a Silencing Charm on it. 

As she goes about gathering her things for her shower, she continues to chide the Half-Kneazle. He's fairly unimpressed. Wild Thestrals couldn't get him to sit in the chair she wants him to. Frankly, he can't understand why _she_ does. He loves his witch. He even _likes_ her. But at moments like these, he really has to question her intelligence. Humans simply aren't that bright. 

If anyone disagrees, he'll happily point out that a certain pet of the ginger boy's apparently lived with a _family_ of wizards and witches for _yonks_ and regularly attended a _school_ of the same without _anyone_ noticing it was a Transfigured human. And the Head of House calls herself a _Transfigurations Mistress_... Pfft. Of course, as he's a feline, no one's likely to understand what exactly he's pointing out, much as they hadn't at the time. He had spent the better part of a school year trying to make the threat of the not rat clear, but, no. Nothing. _Humans_. 

Hermione eventually runs out of steam, and in a typically self-deluding fashion where her pet is concerned, decides he's both understood her, which naturally he has, and has come around to her way of thinking, which isn't bloody likely.  
  


She heads off to finally take her shower only to discover that it feels about as good as the wards. She hasn't a clue what the spell is, but holy cricket, it's amazing! Water! Steam! Jets?! Who knew? It's the magical equivalent of that thing her mum has been... _had_ been pestering her father, sadly rubbish at DIY, to get from the building supply store. Now she understands _why_... Great gods. She decides there's an advantage to the shower over the wards at the door, which is that no one can see her making a spectacle of herself and, not surprisingly, the shower takes longer than usual. 

Mercy.  
  


Dressed, her hair still damp despite a Charm, she sets about some tests of the wards. It might just be an excuse to spend a fair amount of time in them, but who's to say? There are some legitimate avenues of enquiry, however, and thinking her familiar now owes her one to redress his questionable behaviour from earlier, she ropes Crooks into helping her with her tests. 

Taking advantage of the fact almost all students would currently be in class, she Disillusions herself, stays behind the room's Notice-Me-Not field, belts and braces, and as the wards are keyed to her, she is able to open the door with a simple Alohomora. Now that she can see the hallway is clear, she exits and begins to test when she can feel the wards. 

They extend several yards in all directions, but are strongest nearer the door, as she noted before. Obviously they don't prohibit passage, or no one would ever make it in or out of the dungeons. Or if they were somehow open to passage by Slytherins, then no other students would ever make it to the Potions classroom. So that's clearly not the case. She surmises they can't provide all that much useful information on the comings and goings because of that. 

That's incorrect. The _time_ they are crossed is actually a _very_ useful piece of information, and she has no idea as yet how specific the information it provides is. Whether there is a distinction between directionality, which House a passerby belongs to, or even which individuals. The first and second are actually the case, the third is not with very few exceptions for whom Charms have been cast, but she's simply not used to asking the right questions yet. 

It occurs to her that in order to be effective, there must be a line somewhere that others cannot cross. The hallway is naturally out of the question, and the sill seems likely. That supposition appears reinforced by the fact that it's not possible to see into the room from outside. She has no way of testing that with anyone else without exposing the residence, no desire in the least to do so, and she assumes the Loyalty Vow would prohibit that, if only because she assumes as much. A tidy tautology, but no less true. It's Crook's turn to make himself useful. He feels he already has, but cats and their people so rarely agree on that count. 

And so she crouches outside of chambers, the door wide open and calls him. He knows full well he can't cross that sill, and has no intention of running into a wall and instead sits there, leisurely licking his paws. She sticks with it far too long for someone of her intelligence, before relenting, taking the Professor at his word and going to... their icebox, finding some kippers and attempting it with a bribe. 

Crooks weighs his options. He finally decides his best chance of convincing her to give him the fish is if he reconciles himself to making the sacrifice in the name of her research. Well, and fish, naturally. Slowly but with determination, he stalks towards the door, only to be stopped in the doorjamb. His already flat face flattens almost comically against something that functions as an invisible wall, and he can go no further. 

Hermione, naturally, folds _immediately_ under the guilt, rushing to her pet with comforting noises, hugs, and - most importantly - fish, only just remembering to close the door behind her. Crook's effort, in fact, seems to be worth more fish than she had initially allotted, as she quickly goes to fetch him seconds. 

All in all, not a bad take.

* * *

  


As the hour comes to an end, Severus can't help thinking this is probably the last non-confrontational class with Potter and Weasley before it all goes to hell. And then he stops himself there and wonders when it's _ever_ been non-confrontational. He couldn't even claim that had been the case _today_. He stubbornly ignores how he may have contributed to that; it's not the point. The point was _he_ was _their_ instructor, and he demanded a certain degree of _respect_. He's also more than earned it. He's bloody brilliant in his field. 

Well, perhaps not as an educator... Frankly, he hates teaching Potions to the mentally impaired with a passion sadly not matched anywhere else in his life. And then he remembers the bonding and how he's better off not thinking about passion _at all_ anymore. Fucking hell.  
  


Teaching. 

There's no joy to be found in keeping the wilfully ignorant from blowing themselves up. On the contrary, it puts paid to natural selection, which offends his sensibilities. Which are very sensible. And his sense of justice, because he's so incredibly just. But just because he isn't always able to _act_ on it, doesn't mean he hasn't got a _sense_ of it, ta muchly. 

The students rise to leave, and he calls out to Potter and Weasley. Potter has already palmed his wand again, ready to hex Weasley should the need arise. The sight appeals to something in Severus. Personally, were he Potter, he would... how did Weasley himself put it? Consider it the _default_. Sadly, he is not. And then he stops to think about the lunacy of that thought and decides the fumes are getting to him. He probably needs to get out of the dungeons. Fortunately, it's the lunch hour. 

"Potter, Weasley, the Headmaster would like to see you before you go to lunch."

"We're waiting for Hermione," Potter answers, a little truculently. "She still hasn't returned." 

"So I noticed. Just how long does it take to return from the Tower?" Potter's face clouds, Weasley's goes red again at the thought of those lost House points. All five of them. That their chatting had cost them far more doesn't seem to occur to either of the lackwits. Which is part of why he considers them lackwits, naturally. They never fail to disappoint. 

"Well, I'm quite sure she wouldn't _dream_ of looking for _Weasley_ in an empty _Potions classroom_ during the _lunch_ hour." They don't appear mollified _or_ inclined to leave. They can remain unmollified until the end of days as far as he's concerned, just as long as they do it _elsewhere_. Hoping to facilitate that, he concedes, "Very well, if I see her, I'll be sure to tell her where you've gone. Satisfactory? Now may I suggest you move along? It _wouldn't do_ to keep the Headmaster... waiting."

* * *

  


As she sits there coddling her furry man, she feels a faint disturbance in the wards. She realises she had felt it this morning, too, casts a Tempus to confirm class must have just ended, and then it dawns on her that that must be how it feels when people pass outside. It's just as well, then, that she was back in chambers. When the sensation subsides, calculating that those that were in the dungeons will now have left them for lunch, she repeats her process for leaving chambers, and returns to the hallway to continue her exploration of the wards, or just to stand in them a little longer, it's still not quite clear, when Harry and Ron come hurrying towards her. 

For half a moment she panics, the door is wide open, she's standing in the hallway, but she's Disillusioned and flattens herself against the wall, and they take no more notice of the door now than they had an hour ago and simply storm past her, complaining loudly about... _Snape_ all the while. She's still staring at their wake when a certain Professor appears in the doorway.

"May I enquire what you are doing out there, Miss Granger?"  
  


It's all the more startling because she's still Disillusioned.

* * *

  


A Finite Incantatem renders her visible again and he steps aside to allow her to pass as she returns to... their quarters. 

"Trying to figure out how the wards work," she answers, and he now has to suppress a smirk as he remembers wondering if he wouldn't find her spending a good deal of time in the doorway. It seems that bit of snark was rather on the nose. "So I guess they let you know I was standing there?" He lifts a brow to indicate it was a foolish question, but the bond tells her not to worry, and so she doesn't. Eventually he grows tired of waiting for her to flinch, and finally he nods. 

"And why is your... pet in my chair?"

"Crooks!"

She'd only just let him go, too, and there he's already returned to the Professor's chair. It has the advantage, if one chooses to see it as that, not that she particularly does, of no longer leaving her feeling like she's hiding something from him. Obviously _that's_ no longer an option. 

Miss Granger chases the Half-Kneazle from his chair, and Severus Banishes the remaining bits of fur to Crabbe's bed. It's satisfying, particularly as he knows a sensitivity on the boy's part had kept any of the others in his dorm room from being able to have cats, or Kneazles for that matter. And it serves him right for not warding his bed. 

The boys are idiots. 

That sixth year Harper's ginger tom will probably be considered the most likely suspect is simply an added bonus. He supposes this is rather like putting the cat among the pigeons. Winged rats. A perfectly fitting metaphor for the boys if ever there were one.  
  


Miss Granger is standing there behind him with her ginger monster in her arms. "Sir, as I said, I was trying to determine how the wards were set up, and happened to notice Crooks can't cross them." His lips press together in the precursor to a grimace, he has a presentiment of what's to come. "Could you key them for him, too? Please?" Quite. He can't _not_. But he's not looking forward to it either. 

He draws his wand and tells himself it's just like keying them for Sunny was. Well, almost. He has no _intention_ of allowing the Kneazle privileges to bring others into his... _their_ chambers. But he keeps telling himself that, it's just like it was for Sunny. Who knows, if he keeps saying it, he might come to believe it. But as with Sunny, there's no wand involved, of course, which means the magic needs to be keyed to the individual's signature. The process is rather more involved than it was for Miss Granger, and honestly he feels a little silly doing it for a _cat_ , but it can't be helped. He now seems to have a... _pet_. 

Perfect. 

Completing the spell startles a 'Mrowr' from Crooks, who then proceeds to rub against the Professor's legs. Leaving more fur on his trousers naturally. He shoots her another withering look in response that has her shrinking where she stands, and then he Vanishes the fur again. To the naked eye, if the Charm is performed silently, it's virtually impossible with something so small to tell if it's Vanished or Banished. It suits his purposes if she takes it for Vanishing. He doesn't actually wish to agitate her, to make her consider what he is doing or why, particularly as he knows the news he has for her will prove troublesome enough. 

It is perhaps sensible to see how she has fared today first. He knows that Zabini and Nott will have been in Charms this morning. Draco _should_ have been, but obviously _wasn't_. 

"How did you do in Charms this morning, Miss Granger?"

She seems unexpectedly gratified at the enquiry. "I was able to answer a couple of questions on Golpalott's Third Law and Glasgow's G.U.T.S.," she answers, reasonably pleased with herself. He just stares at her, because that most certainly _isn't_ the answer he was looking for. But _by all means_ , he can't wait to hear how many points she won for her House. There's a brief moment where he even resents putting Draco in the Infirmary, because he knows he'd have been able to field at least one of those questions for their House before he catches himself thinking it, feels guilty, and immediately becomes a great deal more patient in response. 

And now he's just wondering why they're covering Potions material in Charms...

He asks, she answers. 

"And Potter wasn't able to answer that?" He enquires innocently. "I seem to recall Horace waxing almost poetic on his knowledge of the material last year..."

She pinks. He smirks. At least she has the decency to find it embarrassing. He lets it go. For once.

"I was thinking more along the lines of Zabini and Nott," he tells her more softly. "How well did you manage with having them in class?"

"Better than I expected to be honest. I think it helped once I realised I had walked through the whole bunch of them alone this morning, and it was no different than it had ever been. If I don't change my behaviour, they won't." 

Would that were so, but he knows that word will get out. Soon. His memories, Draco's memories will be viewed by certain parties. Those parties will share the details, and there will be knock on effects. But there's some time between then and now, and if she can learn to appear calm in the face of it, when confronting the boys, it shouldn't be as bad as it undoubtedly would have been. Additionally, with the memories he removed from Draco and will himself suppress, he hopes to be able to change the narrative sufficiently that it will be far less traumatic. That might make all the difference. 

He focuses on the practical for the moment. "Why did you walk through a 'bunch of them'?" His arrangement with the Baron should have seen to that, and he had escorted her to the Great Hall _himself_. She _should_ have been with _friends_... She doesn't answer, merely averts her gaze, and he realises why she wasn't. Even more quietly than before, he tells her, "Thank you." 

Her eyes shoot up and she simply smiles at him. It's a pleasant smile, and he appreciates that she hadn't felt the need to comment on his state after the confrontation with Hagrid this morning. He has a sense of wanting to reward that, and also not wishing to follow that... kindness with the almost definitely unwelcome information that the Headmaster is _currently_ speaking to Potter and Weasley, so he asks her instead if she has a quick practical question or two on the wards he should answer for her, and predictably she's... thrilled. 

She's concerned with being seen entering or leaving his... their chambers. He explains how to check if the hallway is clear, by listening to the wards. Having experienced the sensation when the students from Potions walked past, she understands what he means. He goes out into the passage to demonstrate it for her, and she quickly gets the hang of it. Then he explains that a Notice-Me-Not on the door coupled with Disillusioning herself will serve well enough if there are people in the hallway. She can then lift the spells when she's well clear of the entry. It's close enough to what she had done earlier that she's annoyed with herself for not thinking of it. 

So much so, that when he then breaks it to her that her friends are currently being briefed on... their bonding, she's nowhere near as upset about that as she would have been a few moments earlier. She finds her own intellectual shortcomings so frustrating that it tends to eclipse a good many other things. That will almost certainly wear off, at the latest when she's confronted with the Duo Debilis, but it's a help for now. However, he can't help noticing that she Banishes easily half the books from the pile on the end table next to... _her_ chair back to her room. He correctly guesses that she doesn't think she'll wish to spend as much time out of chambers once the news breaks. 

Personally, he thinks she'd do well to enjoy as much of it as possible; things will undoubtedly become worse once even more people are informed. But he keeps his opinion to himself. 

"I need to get to lunch, Miss Granger," he tells her instead. She nods her understanding, and begins nibbling her lip in a way that suggests she's hesitant to ask something, even if their bond weren't making that clear. "Would you like to accompany me to the Great Hall?" 

That seems to be the question she hadn't dared ask. It amuses him, but only because he has a dark sense of humour. She's commandeered his study, invaded his chambers, _her_ pet is shedding all over _his_ chair, but she didn't wish to subject him to her company on the way to lunch. He can't say she makes all that much sense to him. 

"Shall I put Crooks in my room?" She asks. Apparently she at least noticed one of the multitude of disruptions. 

He sighs, "No, leave him." But as she summons her books to carry, he just extends a hand to take them, probably because she was considerate enough to ask about the cat. "I appreciate that there are fewer this time," he says as he hefts them demonstratively. 

"I wouldn't want to over tax you," she quips. It gets her a raised eyebrow, but they both know that's in place of a smirk. "Bye, Crooks. Behave," she tells the creature as Severus holds the door for her as they leave. He can't imagine any behaving would hold for more than a minute as the door closes behind them. 

For all he's carrying her books, just the thought of which has her desperately trying to swallow a smile, they don't speak as they walk through the hallways. He still stalks on ahead, and she still has to trot to catch up. She's wishing she hadn't effectively rejected his attempt to accommodate her yesterday. But she can't go back to change that. She resolves to do the best she can with any openings he provides in the future. But she recognises that he could easily outpace her, if he chose to, and he isn't, so he's still moderating some of his behaviours as well. 

When they reach the Great Hall, they again stop. He assumes so that he can return her books and they can enter separately, and he hands her back the texts.

"Thank you," she responds with a shy smile as she takes them. "No, go ahead, Sir," she tells him when he remains standing to allow her to enter first this time. "I think I'll just wait for them here. It's probably better if I intercept them... out here. Before they go in and... I don't think that's a scene we should have in front of the whole..." She takes a steadying breath and reorientates her thoughts. "Wish me luck?" 

"Do you think that will help?" He asks, not helpfully. But there's little point to making the situation worse. "Best of luck, Miss Granger." 

"You may need to stop calling me that in public," she replies, echoing his words from... their bonding, with a wry grin that doesn't quite reach her eyes. He gives her a slight nod in response, but the muscles around his eyes seem tight, too.

  



	44. 11 10g Monday - The Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hermione, Harry, Ron, Severus_

It went disastrously. 

Hermione was indeed able to intercept the boys before they went into the Hall for lunch. In retrospect, having a confrontation with Ron while his stomach was empty probably just made things worse. She _should_ have brought more grapes. Clearly. 

It certainly doesn't help that he's basically been raised to seek comfort in comestibles. But there he was, his stomach growling, with mere feet and a beleaguered witch separating him from food. Unsurprisingly, he was a _little_ more aggressive than he might have otherwise been. Or that could have been down to the news he just received. Probably the latter.

The simple fact that she had once kissed Krum had been enough to have him jump the rails last year, prompting a dubious relationship with Lavender that he frequently didn't even _want_ , driven by his jealousy and wounded pride. Obviously, hearing Hermione had _bonded_ the _greasy git_ , the very same one who had just taken _all sorts_ of points from their House, 'unjustly' goes without saying, was hardly going to be met with a level head. Assuming he _ever_ greets problems in such a fashion that is. 

There were _no words_ to describe his reaction to her moving into the _dungeon bat's quarters_. When they run into Hermione in front of the Great Hall, as if she weren't _deliberately waiting_ there for them, he's still initially unable to express himself. All concerned would probably have been better off had it stayed that way. Alas... 

That this travesty, the _bonding_ , had occurred _yesterday_ , that they hadn't been invited, although that really _would_ have been out of the question, but still, that she had sat next to them at breakfast and throughout Charms and _never said a word_...

Harry feels betrayed by that as well. 

_Neither_ boy stops to consider that they hadn't even _visited_ her since bonding had become a _topic_. And because they didn't, they really have no way of knowing if _she_ was in any shape at that point to have sought _them_ out. Not that a person _in the Infirmary_ should be _expected_ to do so, or that she could have said anything about it to them _had_ she done so thanks to the Oath. But having failed to consider _their_ lack of visitation, those other aspects fall _completely_ by the wayside anyhow. 

They're under Oath not to speak of this with those unaware until tonight. She has a flicker of hope _that_ might make them more sensitive to her position. Her optimism is laudable, provided one views it isolated from probability. Failing that, she seems unconscionably dim. 

They've apparently been told that the attack on her was motivated first and foremost by her blood status. Of course they have. It wouldn't do to make the boys take any responsibility for their actions... That subterfuge makes her quite angry.

* * *

  


That's an understatement. Her anger is sufficient that Severus has trouble swallowing his food where he's seated at the Head Table. He finally gives up on eating. Undoubtedly the roiling emotions would have been bad for the digestion as well. 

A niggling foreboding in the back of his mind soon has him repairing to the Faculty Lounge.

* * *

  


But Hermione _is_ relieved to hear that instead of laying additional grounds for the assault squarely at the feet of her friendship with Harry and making him feel guilty for that, which he _would_ have, and which he _absolutely shouldn't_ , not for _that_ , _never_ for that, the Headmaster had deigned to say it _was_ a deliberate act of retaliation for both Harry's attack on Draco and Ron's Halloween slight. 

She greatly approves. 

Ron's having _none of it_ , as he stubbornly refuses to see how his _Halloween costume_ , of all things, could contribute to an escalation, choosing to ignore the _subject thereof_ entirely, nor is he eager to shoulder any responsibility for something that happened to her. That's fine as Harry's inclined to shoulder more than enough for the both of them. Not surprisingly, neither approach proves particularly satisfactory to her. 

Harry, naturally, quickly leaps to suggesting Malfoy had something to do with the attack on Hermione. She's silent on the matter; she has no choice, there's still the Oath in play. It _aggravates_ her, yet she can't _completely_ disagree with the wisdom involved. But Harry's _not_ observant, and he _is_ impatient, and so he pushes on. "Malfoy let them in!? _That's_ why he had detention?" Oh, _definitely_ , batter the _assault victim_ with questions. 

She assures him it isn't true, which it isn't. 

Harry, _typically_ , doesn't believe her, because he _always_ knows better, even than the eyewitnesses or participating parties. It's tiresome at times. It certainly is so now. 

In a bit of inspiration that will later annoy her no end, she somehow manages to suggest that perhaps Professor Dumbledore assigned Malfoy detention to divert attention from the three of them and to make _himself_ the target for future reprisals. In several months time, she'll come to _regret_ that suggestion even more, but at the present she couldn't begin to suspect how much. For the moment, it's simply a sore point because - of those who were injured, of the people who suffered and _persevered_ this weekend - the Headmaster simply doesn't come _close_ to making the roster. 

_That_ would be exclusively Hermione and the Potions Master, and here he, _they_ go uncredited, and Professor Dumbledore once again shines as their beatific patron saint and guardian angel. It's more than passing irksome once she has a chance to think it through. But it fits so well with _'The World According to Harry'_ , that it gets her the peace she so desperately craves at that moment. Yet another foul compromise. It's becoming a theme. 

Ron, once he's able to form words, apoplexy had rendered him temporarily mute every bit as effectively as Harry's Langlock had, begins by denying an attack ever happened. It goes over well. Predictably. Objectively, the suggestion isn't particularly blessed with sense either, because it leaves the question of _why_ she or the Professor would have ever _agreed_ to the bond. 

_Then_ he suggests that the attack was a devious plan of Snape's. Unquestionably to shore up his credentials with the Order. _Possibly_ even so he could swoop in and marry Hermione. Because she's _gullible_ , she simply fails to recognise that fact. That was probably the moment she came closest to hexing him. It was all a set up as far as Ron's concerned. Well, now that he's willing to acknowledge something happened, that is. 

Further theories include the Potions Master dosing her with... something, he hasn't a clue what, because he isn't exactly a strong student in Potions, but _something _, ____that much he's sure about, to make her agree to this thing. "Because there's no way you consented to this while of sound mind, et cetera."

Hermione may have insulted his intelligence at that point. She certainly questions his so-called 'tactical prowess'. Who wouldn't? 

Ron storms off. 

Harry gives her grief for not talking to them about it in advance. For not seeking their _approval_...

"You can thank Professor Dumbledore for that. And it's not like you come to _us_ to discuss the things he wants _you_ to do first..."

"What, 'Mione, are you so _jealous_ of the attention he pays me..."

" _Seriously_ , Harry? _Yes_ , I'm _so_ jealous that it drove me to _this_." She only narrowly avoids telling him he's got her confused with the ginger git who just stomped off. "Answer the question, Harry. When _the Headmaster_ asks for _your_ assistance, _do you come to ask us first_? And when have you _ever_ asked _permission_ from _anybody_ for _anything_?"

"Well, no, but you have to admit this is different." 

"This was done to keep _both_ of us safe, Harry. _Professor Snape_ needed help..." She's still desperately hoping that's true, and this wasn't just done for her sake. 

"There are people _deserving_ of help, and then there's _Snape_..."

"Professor Snape," she corrects automatically, her hand fisting the miniature phial in her pocket.

He drops it, there's little point; it's 'Mione, and she's impossible to sway in things like that. She tends to see the best in people, at least from his point of view. It's been established that Harry definitely isn't always right. So he asks her something else that had really been bothering him, still failing to consider that _she_ probably _shouldn't_ be the focus of his irritation, and certainly not _now_. "Why did you lie about an attack in the library?" 

"I _didn't_ ," she replies in frustration. She _knew_ he wouldn't make that distinction. She's quietly fuming. 

"Sure felt that way," he complains. They stand for a few moments in silence. Alternating staring and glaring at each other with avoiding each other's eyes entirely. Feet are shuffled uneasily, their postures radiate discomfort. Finally Harry breaks their stalemate. "I better go find Ron," he mumbles and turns to leave. 

"Yes, that sounds like a _brilliant_ idea. _By all means_ , go see how _Ron_ is doing," she calls after him as he heads through the doors. It's not as wholly inconsiderate as she might think given the Oath means Ron can't speak to anyone about the things bothering him right now. On the other hand, Ron's probably both less in need and less deserving of consideration at the moment than the witch Harry just leaves standing there, hurt, all by herself.  
  


The _only_ thing that went well is that both Harry and Hermione had thought to put up Muffliatos. Small mercies.

  



	45. 11 10h Monday - In a Quiet Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Severus and Hermione, Luna, Harry_

_"Yes, that sounds like a_ brilliant _idea._ By all means, _go see how_ Ron _is doing," she calls after him as he heads through the doors._ He can just hear her as the doors swing to behind him. 

He stands there for a moment, shell shocked.

Harry's hurt. 

_Ron's_ hurt. 

Hermione... _seems_ hurt. 

Harry has a sneaking suspicion that's the second time in days he's let her down, but he's not sure what he could have done differently. 

Snape.  
  


_Snape_.

Probably only _Malfoy_ would have been worse. And now that he thinks about it, he isn't even sure that's _true_. 

Well, it _would have been_ had the ferret let the Death Eaters in the castle, of course, but Hermione had been adamant. But as it was...

_Snape_.  
  


Bloody hell.

_What_ was she thinking? Well, he doesn't know now, does he, because she didn't exactly speak to them about it now, did she? She sat there next to them, and didn't say a _single_ word. 

It doesn't dawn on him that _he_ will similarly be unable to say anything to anyone _now_. It would have helped, naturally, had the Headmaster made mention of the Oath, but he tends not to. That simply directs attention, and associated aggravation, in directions he prefers to avoid. Primarily _his_. 

Hermione had walked them to the Potions classroom and let Harry _lie_ for her (not that she asked him to), let him lose _House points_ for her (all five of them), and didn't _warn_ him. He doesn't know what to think. 

He sort of stumbles forward into the Hall meaning to look for Ron and sort of forgetting to do so as he goes. 

Luna approaches him as he makes his dazed way forward, "Everything alright there, Harry?" He nods stupidly. "Only you have a lot of Wrackspurts around you, see? And that's probably not good."

He looks up at her and blinks. He doesn't have the patience for this now. But, distantly, he _is_ glad she cared enough to notice. And say something. That was probably more important. Luna's a good egg, but he just can't right now... And then an idea occurs to him and he blinks again, meets her eyes and says, "Hey, Luna, could you do me a favour?"

"Sure, Harry, what do you need?"

"I just left Hermione out there in the hallway. I think... She probably has a lot of Wrackspurts, too. Could you please check on her for me?"

"They're probably left over from this weekend," she tells him sagely. "She had a pretty bad time," she continues nodding with a concerned expression on her face. 

Harry wonders if Luna isn't going to be yet another person who feels lied to when she hears the truth about what really happened to Hermione this weekend. He's not sure if his sending her after Hermione like this won't just aggravate the problem. Again he fails to pause to consider that Luna's words are probably a great deal _more_ true now than when he thought his friend had been attacked by some vicious books in the restricted section. 

"But you don't have to ask. I'm happy to do it if it might help," she tells him as she heads out the doors to find Hermione. 

He keeps going until he finds Ron angrily shovelling lunch into his gob. He doesn't look like he can taste a thing.

* * *

  


Luna can just spot Hermione storming off as she leaves the Great Hall. The direction is telling, it helps that she knows her friend, and she makes her way after her, quite certain they'll end in the Library. 

When she finally catches up to her, Hermione can be incredibly fast when she's riled, the Gryffindor has already grabbed a small number of texts and made herself comfortable at her usual table. Luna would be hard pressed to name anyone else more at home in the Library. There are others that seem to _like_ it roughly as much, but Hermione also seeks _comfort_ here. Luna can't help suspecting that's because she doesn't find it in her own House. But then, Luna has some understanding of that problem, too.

Like Neville and Hermione, she's not _quite_ a good fit for her House, somehow neither one thing nor another. 

"Hey, Hermione," Luna says in a volume _appropriate_ for a Library as she slips into the seat next to her. That would be something her bushy-haired friend appreciates about her. Hermione looks up at her, startled. She'd been fairly lost in her own thoughts and hadn't heard the blonde approach. "Everything okay?"

Hermione's lips purse, she puts up a buzzy Muffliato and settles on telling Luna in very broad strokes that she just fought with Ron and Harry. But she can hardly say about _what_ , and it doesn't make for a fruitful conversation. 

"Would you like to talk about it?" Luna prompts.

She looks at her so sincerely as she asks. There's a _lot_ of kindness there. And then it all gets to be a bit much and Hermione bursts into tears, because, honestly? She _might_ like to speak about, yes, if she _could_ and someone _wouldn't_ take her head off for what she has to say. But she _can't_. Which is sort of the point. Although she's not even sure if she would tell Luna if she could, because she just can't take any more fighting about what happened to her, or _what_ she did because of it, or _why_. 

It's all a little overwhelming. She's just lucky she still has the Calming Draught in her system. 

Luna puts up a Notice-Me-Not and wraps her arms around Hermione and just holds her and lets her cry. When her sobs subside, she takes her friend's hands in hers, twining their fingers. She sits there holding Hermione's hands as she calms and when she's gathered herself a little, tries talking to her about something... safe, but _important_. 

"You didn't eat again did you?" Her tone is gentle. Hermione is a little surprised by the question, but it isn't loaded, and so she shakes her head in answer. "What did you have for breakfast?" She tells her. "And you didn't eat much in the Infirmary, did you?" Hermione just looks down at the table. Luna's got a point, of course.

"You have to take care of yourself and you have to eat," she tells her. "You can't keep skipping meals." 

"Actually, I had a very good dinner last night," Hermione responds with a sort of disbelieving huff of wry humour at the whole thing. _Her wedding dinner_... She still can't believe it happened. 

"So _one_ good meal all weekend?"

"No, I ate with Madam Pomfrey on Saturday. And you and Harry both brought me baps." Her face falls a little at the mention of Harry.

"So maybe one decent meal a day then. That sounds healthy. At this rate, you're going to starve out the Wrackspurts, hmm? It's a novel approach, but I'm not sure it works that way."

Hermione gives her friend a watery smile as Luna plays with the thread-thin ring that's still so new to Hermione's hand. 

"Can I do anything for you?" Luna asks.

"I don't think so, but thanks for asking," Hermione answers. 

"If you think of anything I can do, you'll let me know?" Hermione nods. "Will you promise me to eat something today? Something substantial?"

"It's not like skipping a couple of meals is going to do me any real harm..." Hermione starts to object.

"A couple of meals? You've skipped meals every day now for the last three. That's not like you. It's not a healthy habit, Hermione, and I'd bet you can use all the strength you can get right now. So, promise me?"

"Alright. I promise," she agrees. She's not necessarily pleased to have her habits so carefully monitored, but she _is_ grateful that Luna cares. She only hopes the blonde still will once she's heard of Hermione's bonding. She looks down guiltily at the ring on her hand that Luna is still subconsciously toying with. 

"Well, that's all settled then. I need to go get my books for my next class from my room, but if you need anything, at any time, just come find me, alright?" She gives Hermione another hug and then rises and heads for the door.

Hermione's left feeling the way she so often does with Luna. She's different to all the others, and it's always a little odd, but at the same time, she genuinely _cares_ , and that's... that's _needed_ right now.

* * *

  


Severus is seated in the Faculty Lounge as he feels the uneasiness from Miss Granger increase. He's quite certain the encounter with Potter and Weasley was more of a 'confrontation' than anything else. It won't have gone well. It's probably just as well that he's not seated in the Great Hall any more. That would undoubtedly have just fuelled the flames. 

The tension, the mounting anxiety from her is abrading his nerves. He's now worried he may actually be called out of classes for this. As she had mentioned just... _yesterday_. Merlin's hairy ballsack. 

He'd sort of hoped it was a joke. 

Deciding he has no option but to curtail this here and now, he leaves to find her.  
  


It's a little like listening to his wards, he realises as he concentrates on the sensation. What he can feel from her does _not_ appear fainter with the distance, that was too much to hope for, unless her distress coincidentally moderates proportionately in direct correlation with his approach, which he considers highly unlikely. But he can somehow sense her general direction, much as he can say of his own wards where a person stands in them and which way they are moving. It will probably improve with time, just as his abilities to discern the information from his wards had. 

He doesn't begin to suspect it yet, but he is in fact _far more_ of a comfort than he can ever imagine, if only because he represents someone who was willing to sacrifice to keep her _safe_. That has much greater significance to her, particularly _now_ when she's feeling somewhat abandoned, well, except for Luna, and under attack, than he could begin to picture. Of course, that's a _theoretical_ relief. 

_Objectively_ , he's also quite... _intimidating_.  
  


He's hardly surprised when his quest takes him to the Library, it only makes sense, really, and then he reconsiders as he thinks about the _last_ time she went there. She must have been more than a little desperate to seek refuge there today. 

He mulls it over. Returning to the Tower was no longer an option, and she probably still felt less secure returning to his... their quarters in the dungeons on her own. Even though her... creature is waiting for her there. Probably in _his_ chair. But the feline surely must provide some solace. He'll need to speak to the Baron again, perhaps arrange for him to be more visible, to escort her from her classes. It's a bit of a problem that there isn't much he can do for the ghost in exchange. He'll have to appeal to House loyalty.  
  


He enters the Library and is looking around, the expression on his face enough to make most people get out of his way and sending a fair few scurrying. _Most_ people. Miss Lovegood is decidedly _not_ remotely like 'most people'.

On the contrary, she walks right up to him. "Hullo, Professor," she greets him. 

"Miss Lovegood," he replies with a restrained bow of his head in greeting. And then he thinks the better of it and asks, "Have you seen..." 

He doesn't come close to finishing before the strange blonde answers him with a smile and nod of her head in the direction she just came from, "Hermione's back there." 

He's not sure if there's any significance to the look she gives his hand or not, but he finds his thumb running over his ring as he thanks her and heads off to find his... wife.  
  


He encounters Newton Kurz, the fourth year Hufflepuff with a more than passing resemblance to Longbottom in the aspects that matter to _him_. In other words, not the blond boy's short, slight build, but his absolutely hair-raising ability to turn even the simplest of Potions experiments into life and death situations. Kurz is one of the individuals inclined to leap behind large, solid pieces of shelving, seeking cover and to get out of his way. He arrests the boy's movements mid-flight with a simple, "Kurz."

"Uh... yes. Yes, Sir," he mumbles as he turns to face his Potions Professor. 

"Here is a list of books I require." He says fishing something from his pocket to hand to the boy. "Kindly gather them and see to it they are checked out for me. I'll retrieve them at the counter."

"Uh... yes. Yes, Sir," he mumbles again. The boy isn't blessed with the gift of elocution, nor is he a particularly witty conversationalist, nor even given to variety if it comes to that, but he's willing to do as he's told, which is so rare as to be worthy of special mention. 

"Ten points to Hufflepuff," Severus says as he sweeps past. It's more effective than 'Thank you'. The blond stands staring after him long after he's gone. Of course, his shock only increases when he sees the titles he's meant to gather.

* * *

  


"Miss Granger," a low voice sounds behind her. She recognises it instantly and whips around to face him. 

"Sir!" It's a good thing he's thought to put up a Muffliato. He manages not to roll his eyes; she's agitated enough. He remains quietly standing there and it slowly occurs to her why he might be. "Oh, no. Oh, I'm _so_ sorry, Sir. Please tell me the bond didn't call you in for that..."

It's only as she says it that he realises it had _not_ in fact called him in. _Yet_. He had responded _proactively_. He deems it likely that it might have become sufficiently problematic that he'd have had no choice, and Merlin know's she was doing a number on his nerves with her vexation, but at the moment, he had come because it seemed... advisable. 

Naturally, he has no intention of telling her that. 

Firstly, because he doesn't wish to suggest a solicitude that isn't to be found in him. He's not... _caring_. And secondly, because given how jarring the sensations are that he can sense from her, it might not be a bad idea if she works to keep it to a minimum beyond just what triggers his Protection Vow. He _is_ a Slytherin, after all.

"Would you care to tell me what happened?" Hermione is learning. _This_ is _not_ the same question as Luna posed, no matter what it sounds like. He doesn't wish to hear about House points won or squabbles with her friends. He simply wants to know _why_ he's been called to the scene. She can do this. She sets her mind to the task.

"Harry and Ron didn't take it well. We argued." She thinks about why his presence could be called for, and proceeds, "I'm afraid I let it get to me. I'm sorry. I'll try to get a better handle on that." She seems to shrink before his eyes as she says it, and he can feel her agitation increasing. 

Clearly, this isn't the best approach. 

He considers what she said, and decides he needs to help her address her problems or this will become a far too regular thing. He sighs. "And _why_ did you argue?"

This actually _does_ seem rather a lot like the question Luna asked, and it confuses her. 

She gives it some more thought. It occurs to her that she actually _can_ speak to him about it, and he's hardly likely to take her head off for having bonded... _him_. As such, the frustrations from before when she couldn't speak with Luna fall away completely now. Which is a _really_ strange thought. If she can keep from annoying him with the details, she actually _does_ have someone she can speak to sitting across from her. She just never thought it would be... _him_.

She gives him a brief outline of what the boys had been told, and _hadn't_ , and that they had been upset to hear she'd bonded... _him_ and hadn't told _them_ about it, and of course their lack of acceptance of their role in this hadn't helped. 

"Why didn't you just tell Potter and Weasley we have _them_ primarily to thank for this?" He asks. It's not an attack. He's on _her_ side and every bit as annoyed with them as she is if not more so. She appreciates that more than she could say. But then she doesn't _have to_ , the bond does it for her, and it helps him dig a little deeper to find the patience to deal with this. 

And so she answers, "I couldn't."

A horrible suspicion sneaks over him. A few more questions are sufficient to circle around the topic until he knows for certain, Albus had taken yet another Oath from her. _Severus_ has done his best to free her of extraneous Oaths, and that ancient arse has squeezed yet another one out of her, and here he now sits because of it. Well, preemptively. But still. He's quietly furious. 

"You can't speak to anyone unaware of the details, am I correct?" Her lips go tight, and he nods. "Do I need to speak to them? Potter and Weasley?"

She misunderstands completely what he's likely to say to them, and instantly leaps in with a "No!" that unsurprisingly manages to offend him. More than he'd have expected, even.

"I hadn't planned to administer _detentions_ , Miss Granger." There's sarcasm, but also some disappointment. Something that almost, _almost_ feels... hurt. She imagines it can't be pleasant to have his bondmate always assume the worst of him. She doesn't quite do _that_ , but she's having difficulty seeing things as they _are_ at the moment. "I had intended to impress upon them the _nature_ of the events Friday."

She's embarrassed, _mortified_ , incredibly sorry to have thought worse of him once again. Somehow today it's becoming a thing. It escapes her that it's _often_ been a 'thing', and that she is simply currently more willing to acknowledge that she is _wrong_ when she makes that mistake. Her hand closes again around the small phial in her pocket as she concentrates on seeing him _properly_. 

She gives him her best, fairest answer, "They were aware that _something_ happened, even if not precisely _what_ , and they _still_ thought their approach to dealing with me, _blaming me_ , was the _best_ one. What the situation called for." She shrugs. She hasn't really got the right words for that. It was simply... _rotten_.

"Perhaps if they had a clearer understanding..." he begins, but she blanches. No, she's probably correct. Things were difficult enough as was, dealing with _their_ reactions on top of it... She's probably got the right of it, and he feels a little sorry for her. Some friends. He manages not to say as much. The purpose here was to _calm_ the witch, not antagonise her further. "As you wish, Miss Granger. We'll do this your way."

That earns him another one of those odd smiles of hers, but he can feel her relaxing and considers the job half done.

* * *

  


He takes a look at the table in front of her. She has three books open before her to entries on _cornflowers_. Two books detailing their uses in potions and one Herbology text covering their cultivation. He knows beyond a doubt she's trying to figure out why he Vanished the flower from the small arrangement on his tray at dinner last night. Not that he has any intention of admitting he understands her goals. 

"Miss Granger, what exactly are you doing?"

"I was curious, Sir." Isn't she always. It's practically a state of being for her. 

"Don't you think your time would be better spent learning something... _useful_?"

"Surely time spent trying to understanding you isn't wasted." Once again, not a ploy, merely a simple statement of what she considers fact. It seems the _bond_ is surprisingly... useful. "I wanted to know why you Vanished the cornflower."

"Because _someone_ was being... _cute_ ," he evades.

"How so?" 

"Asters. Thistles. _Cornflower_ ," he sounds appalled. 

"I don't understand?"

"The language of flowers." She's kicking herself that she hadn't thought to pull one of _those_ texts. "Someone was having a laugh."

"Thistles? Wasn't that pain, pride..."

"And protection, yes, for the _Victorians_ , perhaps. But not in _Scotland_ , and I suspect a Scottish _elf_ at the root of it. In which case one would need to look to the Celtish meanings." His brow furrows. "I can't say I hold any store by it. _None at all_ in fact. If one is to learn something, it should be something _of use_ and not culturally _relative_. 'Milk thistle, for liver potions'..." he recites. He shakes his head in disapproval of the flower code. 

"And yet you apparently know at least two different meanings for it." She bites back a grin. It's not easy. 

"I may have stumbled across something while reading..." He grumbles. The grin now creeps across her face despite her best efforts, and he _might have been_ annoyed, but as it seems to banish her anger, the hurt her friends had caused, he does his best to ignore the irritation. 

"Wouldn't the flowers just have come from the greenhouses? The thistle wasn't in bloom, after all." 

"Cornflower isn't even in _season_ ," he objects, as the Herbology text would no doubt soon reveal. 

"So would you mind translating?"

"Certainly, Miss Granger, _nothing_ would give me more _pleasure_ ," he shoots her a look dripping with sarcasm. But she doesn't waver, and eventually he gives in. "Asters, starworts, are a talisman of... love and a symbol of... patience." She blushes, rather becomingly, at the first, but her expression indicates she suspects the second might prove... necessary. He's inclined to agree with that, no matter _how_ becoming her blush. 

"The thistle," he really doesn't sound pleased, "protection, healing, _devotion_ , strength, determination and bravery."

She notes he doesn't mention the cornflower again beyond having used it as proof that the flower choice was deliberate. But that's what libraries are for. And yet... "Shall I find a text on the secret language of flowers and look up centaurea? Or would you care to fill me in?" 

He would _not_ care to, ta muchly. But she knows which flower it was, or she wouldn't have the books open as she does before her, and she's perfectly capable of looking it up if he says nothing, and he feels she'll read even more significance into it if he dodges her question. 

"Cornflowers, also known as Bachelor Buttons, represent being single, as the term 'bachelor' suggests, and... hope in love. And celibacy," he adds wryly. She begins coughing as he says it. "Quite." 

She decides Sunny must be _very_ sure of his position or _utterly_ immune to the Potions Master's moods to pull such a stunt. 

A little thoughtfully he says, "Long ago it was believed burning an Aster's leaves could drive away evil serpents."

"I can think of at least one where that might not be a bad thing." He tenses a little, again it's something she feels more than sees and she laughs, a pleasant laugh, and tells him, "Not Slytherins. I was thinking more of You-Know-Who's familiar." 

She can feel him relax as he answers, "On that we are agreed, but I am quite certain burning asters won't be of the slightest help against her. It's _never_ that simple."

"Pity." They sit for a moment in silence, and it isn't uncomfortable. Both are a bit surprised to realise it. 

"I believe it's time to make our way to class," he rouses her. She Banishes the Library texts back to their shelves and he again takes her books. "What do you have next?"

"Ancient Runes," she answers.

"Followed by Defence," he supplies, remembering some of his N.E.W.T.s students' schedules. 

The grimace she makes as she nods... satisfies him. Apparently she doesn't think all that much better of Taylor than he does. It's a pleasant change to how Lockhart was regarded. Even by _her_ , in fact. 

He leads her to the counter on their way from the Library and collects the books waiting there with a note affixed labelling them reserved for him. Taking them in hand he holds them out so she can read the spines. Four books on the magical managing of pets, their care and training. 

"There are entire _chapters_ dedicated to Anti-Shedding Charms and keeping them off of furniture," he informs her suavely. 

She blushes _spectacularly_. 

"I'll leave them for you in chambers," he tells her. "You may wish to do some reading."

And then the odd little witch is beaming, which only throws him, as he'd rather calculated on it being insulting, "You trust me with books _you_ checked out?" She's positively chuffed. He's at a loss. 

"I believe I can trust you not to mangle them." Frankly, if not _her_ , he has no idea _whom_. She practically worships the written word. Impossibly, she's smiling even more. He can't afford to be seen walking around with her like this; that would certainly give rise to rumours. He becomes a bit brusque. "You've had that animal since _third_ year. I can't believe you haven't read any of these books already by now." He's a little surprised there are _any_ books _at all_ left in the Library that she hasn't read, in point of fact.

She blushes furiously, but it's still bloody becoming. And instead of being suitably chagrined, she's just pleased he even knows how long she's had Crooks. He decides he'll never understand the witch and sets off down the hallway. 

Bobbing in his wake, she follows him once more to the staircase where he returns her texts and they part ways. For now.

  



	46. 11 10i  Monday - Class Inaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Severus, Hermione, the Baron, Harry, Ron, Call-Me-Terry Taylor_   
>  _Sunny in absentia._

Severus is almost satisfied with himself as he makes his way back to the dungeons. His volunteering of the _possible_ meaning of the cornflower, an embarrassment, but a _known_ one, had distracted her nicely from its cultural significance. Although that topic is less _probably_ covered in their Library, he couldn't _exclude_ it with certainty, and this will most likely keep her from seeking out the information. 

The witch in question is terribly persistent and exceedingly thorough in her research, traits of hers with which he is only too familiar. Merlin knows he's lamented that fact on more than one occasion. No, it had been a source of regular annoyance. _Frightfully_ thorough. 

Excepting, perhaps, the field of Household Charms, he thinks with a wry glance at the books nestled under his arm...  
  


There's no question in his mind, Sunny had provided the flowers, and in many respects, the house elves' folklore corresponds to that of humans from days passed. They've clung to the myths, the old beliefs more tenaciously. Accordingly, there were two aspects Severus wasn't keen to emphasise. The first, that the celibacy could more precisely be understood as 'fidelity' or 'chastity', forsaking all other partners, _abstaining_ in _favour of_ the... _courted_ individual. He's not eager to highlight that at all. Fidelity was assured by their Vows, that's not the issue. The problem, clearly, was the implication of eventual... _consummation_.  
  


Indeed.

The second, the custom of wearing the cornflower when... courting. Traditionally, cornflowers were worn by young men _in love_. The cut flower's longevity was taken as an indication of reciprocity. On the other hand, if it faded too quickly, it was seen as a sign that the man's love was not returned. All well and good, except _he_ is not in love, _she_ is not in love, and it beggars the question - _why had the elf chosen it_?

Beyond a latent fear of being forced to watch the bloom wither before they'd even tucked in, Severus had had his suspicions. 

Simply put, he doesn't particularly trust Sunny not to have placed some kind of enchantment on the flower. The elf means well, Severus knows this beyond any doubt, but they don't always agree on what would be in his best interests. He'll need to keep an eye on his little factotum.

Fortunately, Miss Granger isn't a Slytherin by any stretch of the imagination, and she had been easy to distract with his relatively elementary gambit.

And soon after it occurs to him that he shouldn't be all _that_ pleased, as it had been a bit of marked _stupidity_ on his part to Vanish the fool flower in front of her like that had he _not_ wished to draw attention to it. Some Slytherin he is.  
  


Well, he'd been in poor shape at the time.  
  


And apparently it _showed_. 

Slightly less pleased with himself, he continues towards the dungeons. His mood only improves when he encounters the Baron near his classroom, and hails him for a word.  
  


Despite carefully evaluating a variety of messages and purposes, Severus nevertheless completely neglects to consider that the meaning of the arrangement could be as simple as a _wish_. Not inclined towards wishing much himself, it never occurs to him that Sunny could have been making a wish _for_ them. But even if Severus had thought of it, he still wouldn't have been entirely correct.

* * *

  


Harry and Ron aren't as academically... gifted as Hermione, and are pursuing fewer N.E.W.T.s. Ancient Runes isn't one of the five... well, _four now_... classes that she still shares with them. As such, she has another hour of relative peace before she has to face them in DADA. 

The boys in turn make use of their free hour after lunch by heading to the Quidditch pitch and trying to work off steam. Or rather, Harry drags Ron forcibly down there and tries putting him through his paces. It helps, but only a little.  
  


Ordinarily, Hermione would be seething over the patent squandering of valuable class time that constitutes their practical DADA session. Professor Taylor has them _meditating_. _Again_. For _two. Whole. Hours_. And there is no speaking permitted at all. 

Say what you will about his competence and undeniably strange ideas, the man actually has a surprisingly good Monitoring Charm for detecting when someone is whispering. 

A number of weeks ago, Harry had come into class all blotchy green and highly irritated. The 'Quibbler' interview was comparatively fresh and still generating a great deal of discussion then, the absolutely erroneous conclusions drawn from the Gwenog Jones 'reveal' (Harry's quite certain he never said _any_ such things) had proven a bridge too far, and Ginny had caught him in the halls and hexed him quite enthusiastically, if not exactly _successfully_ , sometime after lunch on that particular day. Hermione, naturally, had missed the... _fun_ , as Ron put it, rather _typically_ , this time because she was in Ancient Runes. As though _that_ were something to be ashamed of... Harry cast a Muffliato, in an attempt to fill her in on what had happened and to cover Ron's laughter, but Taylor had caught them right off with his Charm because of the Muffliato's buzz. 

In a measure favoured by pedagogues far and wide, magical and non-magical alike, the DADA instructor had demanded that Harry share whatever he had to say with the entire class. Not particularly gifted in spinning yarns on the fly _either_ , Harry had simply related the unvarnished truth, although it was thankfully absent of Ron's embellishments and assorted sound effects. Beyond the laugh track he still couldn't seem to stop providing, that is. Taylor himself had found the story so compelling, so genuinely _amusing_ , he took only five points from them each, but as the rest of class was now also laughing, the Professor included, not much meditating was done on that particular day. 

Not that that is _any_ way a significant difference to what normally takes place within those four walls.  
  


And so here they now sit, once yet _again_ trying to clear their minds, to become one with the collective... _whatever_. Hermione hasn't the foggiest, not that the majority of her classmates are faring any better. Over _two months_ of this unadulterated rubbish, and she still doesn't know which collective she's supposed to want to join. She's beginning to seriously question if she's a joiner at all. The course generally fails to improve her mood; it should come as no surprise that it's even less helpful in that regard than usual today.

Normally Hermione thinks Professor Taylor's lessons are a tremendous waste, but in this instance, this _singular_ instance, the silence comes as an enormous relief. She's sure, beyond any reasonable doubt, that _that_ will prove a _great_ source of consolation to her when You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters are mopping the field with them. Oh but look, Mr. Dolohov, at just how well I can meditate and commune with the collective... Quite. The battle will be a rout if Taylor has anything to do with it. 

The practicality, or lack thereof, of the lesson notwithstanding, her nerves are thankful for the... breather, nonetheless. 

The silence, however, doesn't keep Ron from throwing her looks that have Hermione reaching into her pocket and clenching the miniature phial. Hard. By the time the course is over, her fist has developed a cramp. Harry has the good sense to yank Ron out of there as soon as they're dismissed. 

Hermione feigns an interest in breathing techniques and hangs back, ostensibly to ask Professor Taylor some questions, until the boys have left and had time to get well clear. Only then does she venture into the hallway. Which is right about when it occurs to her that she had most of the boys from Friday night in that class as well, and yet she'd been a great deal less comfortable with the presence of her... _friends_. Deliberate or not, her delaying tactic had opportunely given the Slytherins a head start, too. She's probably not all too eager to encounter them or any of the other Snakes currently making their way down to the dungeons after classes, now that she thinks about it. 

It's a little absurd, really. She'd never allowed things like that to determine her movements through the castle in the past, but she's gotten a small taste of what such unguardedness can mean, and finds it difficult to return to her previous... oblivious state. 

She leaves the classroom... cautiously, looking about to see if anyone has stayed behind, lurking. The hallway is clear, and she feels somewhat foolish. With renewed confidence she makes her way all the way to and then past the Great Hall before heading off in the direction of the dungeons. But as she grows closer, her nervousness increases again, and she half jumps, startled, when the Baron appears out of nothing to conduct her to a nearby alcove. 

"Kindly wait here one moment, Madam," he whispers. 

She does. 

He frankly doesn't seem like someone one should argue with. Or at least not someone _Hermione_ would care to argue with. And he'd been polite, after all. Manners are important... 

He floats off almost before she can nod her agreement, it's practically a given, from her or any other student for that matter. A good portion of staff, too, actually, and not even Peeves dares to dissent. The Baron's gone for a few minutes, long enough for the young woman to wonder what precisely she's doing hiding there, but she really had no desire to tangle with the intimidating spectre. 

Roughly when she's beginning to question what remains of her good sense, or if she even possesses any, he returns and bids her to continue. Again he flits off. And again he reappears out of nowhere, this time directing her into another hallway. She does as he asks. The Professor had told her to trust the ghost, and so she will. The Baron repeats the process, reappearing to instruct her to continue her progress towards her chambers. She doesn't get far.

Again he appears to redirect her a third time, now to a nearby little used stairwell. It occurs to him that he could probably march her half the way around the castle as willing as she is proving to follow his directions, but because she does, without question or hesitation, he discovers he hasn't the least desire to steer her wrong. She seems to... trust him. It's... unusual.

She of course has no way of knowing, and in fact has not asked, but he has steered her effectively around the comings and goings of the Slytherin sixth and seventh years. He has also diverted a group of fifth years who now believe Peeves has blocked the passageway she is using. Peeve's reputation will hardly suffer for it. No one particularly likes the poltergeist anyway. 

Although she's unaware of it, the Baron had also waited for her outside of the DADA classroom. He's followed her, invisibly, the entire way. Her tactic of waiting until the others had disbursed had been so successful, however, that circumstances hadn't dictated he make his presence known to her any sooner. It wasn't necessary until they had entered the dungeons, where predictably the concentration of Slytherins was highest. 

He naturally has no way of knowing that her trust, and it _is_ trust, belongs almost entirely to the Head of House for whom he is performing this service. She extends it to the ghost on the basis of the man's word alone. But ultimately it won't make any difference how it started, and for the moment, it sets both of them on a better path.  
  


Funny how that works.

  



	47. 11 10j Monday - The Breather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Severus, Hermione, the Baron, Crooks_   
>  _in absentia Newton Kurz, Neville_

Severus returns to chambers more than a little weary after his afternoon classes. He still feels the effects of the weekend all too distinctly, down to his very bones even. He's far too young for that. 

Thinking of young... 

Miss Granger's irritation in what must have been DADA hadn't helped. It was noticeably worse than Ancient Runes, and he's trying to decide if the additional Slytherins' or her... _friends'_ attendance had made that class worse, or if it was simply down to Taylor's... _tuition_. He's torn between whether he'd rather it were due to the Boy-Who-Lived-to-Irk and his Ginger Menace sidekick or Taylor. But Severus' preferences make no difference to the facts of the matter, and doubtless he'll find out soon enough. 

Fleetingly it occurs to him to wonder if she had found his own DADA tutelage less... _irritating_. And immediately following, that he should be grateful he won't have the displeasure of experiencing _that_ particular humiliation via the bond as she no longer partakes in his classes. Small mercies. 

It still annoys him, greatly, to hear his Potions students mourn _Slughorn's_ returning to his retirement. It's _particularly_ vexing coming from the members of last year's Ravenclaw - Hufflepuff O.W.L.s class that improbably survived the explosion Horace had somehow permitted, and almost equally improbably progressed to Severus' sixth year N.E.W.T.s class. 

Smith is still sporting 'go-faster' stripes along one side of his head from that minor catastrophe, not that it has accelerated his thought processes any. His hair is as unlikely to grow back as are Horace's eyebrows.  
  


As Severus progresses into his... _their_ lounge, he's unsurprised by this point to discover the half-Kneazle in his chair, although it's unclear if said lack of surprise stems from his generally pessimistic outlook or an impressive ability to adapt to new situations. Probably a bit of both. It would seem he now has a Ginger Menace of his own. He's rather hoping their relationship never advances to the stage where the feline could be considered _his_ sidekick.  
  


Severus has manifestly never been owned by any sort of cat before. 

He doesn't even bother removing the creature from his seat, simply Banishing the loose fur out from underneath him directly to Crabbe's bed. That still proves satisfying. He's not sure he'll tire of it, in fact, picturing Crabbe's adverse reaction so very clearly in his mind. Yes, _quite_ satisfactory. And he's also satisfied to see he was able to Depulso the fur without making the tatty moggie more than blink. That takes a bit of skill. He's glad of the reassurance given how poorly he was doing Friday. He rather imagines he'll need all his strength again later. 

With some resentment, he crosses to what used to be his reading nook and takes a seat at his... desk, his now decidedly... _smaller_ desk, his _much_ smaller desk, bugger, and begins to gather his work for the evening, what he'll have of it, allowing his afternoon to pass in review as he does. 

One melted cauldron in his Ravenclaw - Hufflepuff fourth year class, which was virtually impossible at those temperatures. That's inaccurate, it _was_ impossible. Except clearly it _wasn't_ as it had _happened_. He really has no idea how Kurz manages it, and with that degree of consistency, too. It beggars belief, but the boy may actually be _worse_ than Longbottom. And now Severus finds himself wondering if _that_ wasn't simply down to a bushy-haired witch whispering in Longbottom's ear at every possible chance. Left to his own devices, that boy may well have impossibly melted cauldrons, too, at every available chance. They'll never know.

Other than the Kurz conundrum, there were three narrowly averted explosions in his sixth year N.E.W.T.s double class, one minor one, and no hospitalisations. On balance, a better than average day. 

He hates his job. 

He has an imposing stack of parchments to grade, the obvious disadvantage to surviving the weekend's trials. Perhaps he'd be better off viewing it as the disadvantage of having been _comatose_ and in no condition to grade things instead, but his mood doesn't permit the more positive phrasing.  
  


That mood isn't greatly improved as the bond alerts him to Miss Granger's approach. 

Having no desire to spend more time in her company than their circumstances dictate, he prepares to beat a retreat to his office. The parchments in hand, he opens a side drawer to remove a bit of medicinal chocolate, prophylactically goes without saying, and discovers a leaky biro. Given that Banishing the cat hairs to Crabbe's bed had been one of the few pleasures of what is sure to become a thoroughly dismal day, he removes the pen and Transfigures it into a small ball of yarn, which he tosses to the creature in his chair as he repairs to his office through the connecting door off their dining area.  
  


He can just feel the shift of his wards alerting him to her arrival as the door to his office closes behind him. Strangely, unexpectedly, it isn't an... unpleasant sensation.

* * *

  


As the wards ripple against her skin, Hermione relaxes. She hadn't realised she'd been so tense until she does. She may have even sighed. Possibly her eyelids fluttered a little. She'll need to get that under control before she embarrasses herself. It has somehow escaped her notice that a certain Potions Master was only too aware of her response. 

Still a little shy in the Baron's company, she nevertheless turns to thank him for escorting her home. It's much easier to give him a warm smile standing within the wards as she now is. 

The warmth of that smile, in turn, has him... unclenching. Slightly. In as much as ghosts _can_ , naturally.  
  


The witch is... odd. 

The Baron bloody well knows (ha!) he was... _useful_. But _the witch_ doesn't. She has no idea what he'd done for her, or if he'd done anything _at all_. He could have led her on a snipe hunt for all she knows. 

And yet she... thanked him. _Genuinely_ , it would seem. Despite not knowing with certainty if he'd actually helped her or not. Not that he would lead her astray, but still... She seems inclined to think... _well_ of him. Interesting. He'll need to give this some thought. 

With a hoarse, "Good afternoon, Madam," and a characteristically sombre bow, he bids her adieu and floats thoughtfully off down the corridor.  
  


The Firsties he encounters around the corner find his pensive expression particularly terrifying, as their shrieks would attest.

* * *

  


A smile still very much in place, Hermione enters... their chambers, looking about for the Professor, but he's nowhere to be seen, which she finds a little disappointing. She had half expected him to be there before her, given the proximity of his classroom. She's fairly certain he doesn't have office hours right now... 

Unable to think of a compelling reason to disturb him, or even a vaguely adequate excuse, she opts against returning to the hallway to stop by his classroom or office. 

On consideration, she's not that eager to be out there anyway. 

She thinks about it and decides the wards make her feel... safer, more comfortable. And without the company of the Baron, and isn't _that_ a strange thought, she suspects she'd feel far _less_ comfortable outside of chambers now that classes are over for the day. Well, with the exception of Astronomy, of course. Not that it was germane to her objection, but then that's hardly a reason to forgo pedantry.  
  


As she enters their lounge, she's surprised to find Crooks once again making himself at home in the Professor's chair, and she has a few choice words for her familiar. Quite a few, in fact.

He's unmoved. Literally. The impudent half-Kneazle has made himself quite comfy there with a ball of yarn he's managed to dredge up from... somewhere and has no intention of moving. In a flash of panic she worries he's stolen the yarn from the Professor before discarding the notion as patently ridiculous. And then her thoughts flit, _most_ involuntarily, to Neville's third year Boggart, and a vision of the Professor in Augusta Longbottom's clothes... _knitting_ comes to mind. Presumably winter hats and scarves for the house elves just to make the absurdity complete. 

Her lack of sleep may be showing. 

No. Wait. The knitting could have been in the Gryffindor House colours. _That_ would indeed have been more absurd.  
  


She finally goes to Crooks and tugs him from the seat, only to discover he's shed on it. Not much, she thinks with some relief, Crooks can't have sat there long, but still... She's just glad the Professor isn't there to see it. 

She doesn't know a spell for Vanishing his fur, which had rather been the point of the books Professor Snape had taken from the Library earlier. The issue with the fine hairs, of course, was that one needed to Vanish the lot of them. Individually. Which clearly wasn't going to be crowned with much success. She needs a way to Vanish them in the aggregate.

She doesn't dare use a Scourgify on his chair; she'd mar the leather. Banishing them to the bin would be easier, but fails to occur to her. She's just decided a damp flannel from her bath might do the trick and moves towards her room. As she does, she spots the small stack of books on the end table next to her chair and smiles. 

It would seem the Professor had anticipated this problem. 

With a "Come here, Crooks," she folds herself into the chair for a spot of research. 

Glancing at her hand as she reaches for the first book, she notices the impression the phial in her pocket had left is still visible on her palm. It hasn't been too long since DADA, but still. She decides Crooks should make reparations for his abominable behaviour and she Summons his ball of yarn. Before his eyes she Transfigures it, a touch smugly, into a small silver chain with a little hook onto which she carefully threads the phial's little stopper. 

She hangs the necklace about her neck with a pleased smile and a gentle fingering of the glass. She'll undoubtably still spend a lot of time holding it, and putting it on a chain shouldn't be any help with the marks doing so leaves on her hand, but it will probably be easier all around if it isn't in her pocket as she does. 

Chidingly she tells Crooks, "That's what you get for sitting in the Professor's chair." He still feels he had the right of it, and manages to look quite disgruntled at this turn of events. 

It doesn't take long before Hermione folds, it never does, not one to take a firm stand against her pet. Or her friends, really, but that's another matter. "Your toys are in your carrier. Go on, go get something." She sighs dramatically, and acts a little put upon, but Crooks isn't fooled. 

Hermione Summons some grapes from the fruit bowl, mindful of her promise to Luna to eat better, casts an Impervius on the books so they'll remain unaffected by her snack, it wouldn't do _at all_ to get them sticky, and settles in for a read.  
  


The half-Kneazle doesn't keep her waiting long before returning with a bit of fur and feather cat toy which he deposits, most demonstratively, at her feet. He stares at her expectantly, unrelentingly, his tail twitching until she eventually gets a clue and with a soft laugh Transfigures the toy into a ball of yarn very much like the one he had before. Only then does he leap into her lap and snuggle in for company. 

Not, on closer inspection, that he's much impressed by her topic of study.

  



	48. 11 10k Monday - Stirring the Leaves in the Teapot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Lavender, Ginny, Sybill, Harry, Ron_

Lavender is brighter than people give her credit for, she's sure of it. Maybe even a _lot_ brighter, although that might be because they think she's so dim. But just because her interests lie in Beauty Charms, doesn't mean she doesn't know _plenty_ of spells. She thinks she could easily hold her ground against Ron in that regard, well, not in a _duel_ , obviously, Hair-setting Charms aren't very useful for _that_ , but certainly in terms of numbers of Charms in her repertoire, and _he_ got to be a _prefect_. It's not like _he_ ever learnt a _single thing_ that wasn't demanded of him for class, and not even _then_ much of the time. 

Well, _or_ for the DA, but then _she'd_ done that, too, hadn't she? 

Fine, alright, _and_ Quidditch, but that was quite possibly the most boring and thoroughly useless thing on the planet. Next to Flobberworms. No, actually, giving it some thought, it might just be _more_ useless than Flobberworms. She's heard rumours to that effect. 

Well, except for the shape Quidditch left Ron in. He _did_ have nice abs. 

And he looked smashing flying about on a broom above the crowds like that. And it _was_ rather a thrill to hear the people cheering...  
  


But that wasn't the point. 

No. The point was that it's hardly fair that Lav's competition for the prefect position is _Hermione Granger_. Not fair _at all_. Who is _Ron_ up against? _Right_. Like _that's_ a _challenge_. Lav's taking _six_ N.E.W.T.s. Not _one_ of the boys is. Although courses like Divination, Astronomy, and History of Magic might be less rigorous than maybe Potions... But then it's not like Ron even had the _required O.W.L. score_ for the class. He'd practically _cheated_. 

Sure, Lav might only be taking History because Parvati had really wanted to, but still... Vati's got it worse, naturally, always compared to her sister, the _Head Girl_. It's not like they could _both_ be Head Girl. And there again, it's the _competition_ that counts. How could her parents expect Vati to be a _prefect_ under these circumstances?

The obvious flaw in that thinking, that _Hermione hadn't_ been made Head Girl, that _Padma_ had thereby outperformed her by whatever measure counted, eludes Lavender. Of course, _that's_ not actually the reason Hermione _wasn't_ made Head Girl, but it's not like Lavender had any way of knowing it.  
  


Admittedly, Hermione is rather a sore spot for the blonde, ever since her roommate threw herself _shamelessly_ at Lav's boyfriend last year. That's just not on. Maybe Rita Skeeter had had it right about the girl back during the TriWiz. 

Scarlet witch indeed. 

That Lav should probably blame her _ex-boyfriend_ , the handsy ginger rat, for anything that _may_ have transpired, but probably didn't, between him and her roommate doesn't occur to her. And given she doesn't believe for a moment Hermione has ever had _anything_ of that sort with _Harry_ , and still discounts almost all of the rumours about Krum, bizarrely even despite some photographic evidence to the contrary, it's a little puzzling how she arrives at that verdict. But then logic _really_ isn't Lavender's forte. And scorned witches can be bitches, as the saying goes. 

Lavender's quite comfortable in that role.  
  


Her character aside, Lav's had an interesting day. She had Divination with Parvati and her sister after lunch, and today Professor Trelawney had had a _vision_. An _actual_ vision. She made a _prophecy_ , right there in front of the entire seventh year N.E.W.T.s class. What were the chances? And Lavender is quite sure, this one must hit close to home. Even the twins were inclined to agree. 

She's still trying to decide what exactly to do with the information when Ginny enters from the boys' dorms, apparently continuing an argument with Harry, or maybe Ron, shouting over her shoulder, "Whatever. If you _want_ me to go, you'll have to tell me _why_ first," as she appears. 

That's probably exactly what Lavender was waiting for. "Ginny," she calls out to the redhead cheerfully, "you won't believe what happened in Divination today..."

* * *

  


Ginny finds herself in an odd sort of position this year, and she couldn't say she enjoys it. Having harboured a crush on Harry long before she ever met him, effectively since early childhood, Ginny had been over the moon when their stars finally aligned last year, as Lav had put it. To have him _end things_ only a month and a half later... Oddly somehow even Lav's precious Professor Trelawney hadn't foreseen _that_. 

Lav claimed she had other priorities.  
  


Harry had gotten a horrible fright when Tonks was so seriously injured by that terrifying potion last June, and had up and called things quits. Naturally. Because _of course_ he did. That was _all_ about _Harry_ after all. It was particularly annoying, as the same event somehow acted as a catalyst for Tonks and Remus to get their acts _together_ ; and they got _married_ just weeks later. But no, _Harry_ was different. And not even _involved_ in the skirmish, but _that_ hadn't stopped him from disposing of Ginny like last week's 'Sunday Prophet'. No, not _Harry_. 

Ginny may still be a bit bitter about their break up...  
  


Then Moody's and Hedwig's deaths during the Battle of the Seven Potters only seemed to confirm Harry's worst fears. That at least was _relevant_. Well, and sad, of course. It was as though Moody represented the severity of the threat, if it could happen to him, if _he_ could be bested, it could happen to _anyone_. Ginny couldn't really argue with that.

Hedwig represented the pain of losing someone Harry cared about deeply. Ginny isn't exactly tickled to somehow be in the same category as his _owl_ , but then she's never had more than a Pygmy Puff as a pet, and Arnold wasn't all that... interactive. Frankly, he could probably be switched for another Puff of similar colour and she wouldn't notice. It might be fair to say she isn't too attached, so she's trying to reserve judgment on that count.

But after that night, Harry was more certain than ever that he and Ginny couldn't be a couple until the war was over. 

She's really not pleased with _any_ of that, but she could almost accept it. Almost, except for _one_ thing. Harry wants to be an _Auror_ , so she's having a little trouble seeing how _that_ will somehow magically change their situation. It's not like there's a Charm for it. The arguments against a relationship _should be_ as valid _then_ as they are _now_. It makes it really hard to see a future for them in this.

Maybe she should ask Lav to check one of those blasted crystal balls...  
  


Either way, no matter how noble Harry's reasons _may_ have been, it still _hurt_. 

And it was _embarrassing_. Excruciatingly so. 

But at the time, Harry hadn't even been certain he'd return for this school year. He'd spoken of possibly going on some kind of mission for the Headmaster. He had _his_ ideas about how things would play out. Ginny had _hers_. 

The truth is, it's a whole different pot of Plimpies having him there at Hogwarts. Were he absent? Honestly? She could have artfully positioned herself as his girlfriend, _so_ heroic and _terribly_ loyal in his absence. Swooning about for effect and clutching her pearls. Not that she could afford pearls... She could always Transfigure something. And when it became inopportune, say in the face of overly close perusal by supporters of You-Know-Who, then naturally she'd want nothing whatsoever to do with him. She knew the deal. She could manage it. 

It would have been the best of _both_ worlds, and she'd have straddled them as masterfully as she does a broom. 

It would have been just like the Kneazle in the box uncertainty thing Hermione had told her about, where the Kneazle is both alive and dead... Actually, that was morbid and didn't make much sense and sure sounded a lot like magic for a bunch of Muggles; her father hadn't been able to make any sense of it either. But if Harry _weren't_ there at school, she'd either be his girlfriend or not, as was convenient. 

Now she's just... _not_. 

But she can't move on, either. It doesn't help that people like Romilda and her gaggle of silly geese are throwing themselves at him every chance they get. He's not interested, that's not the problem, but still. 

And it _really_ doesn't help that Ginny gets teased sometimes that maybe Harry is more interested in Hermione.

Or _Gwenog Jones_. _That_ grated. He hadn't even known who she _was_ until Ginny had introduced him to her. Well, not in person obviously. 

No. _That_ had been Professor Slughorn. And now she's thinking about how Harry had actually _met_ Gwenog last year. She must have impressed him more than he let on at the time going by the things he said in that interview...  
  


Additionally, and Ginny doesn't feel it's quite _fair_ , but given she'd been to the Yule Ball with Neville, some tongues had gotten to wagging, and the story goes she dated pretty much everyone in that class but her brother. She tried pointing out she hadn't dated Seamus, but then someone said she'd swapped him for Michael Corner, everyone agreed he was less likely to blow anyone up, and _he_ actually made N.E.W.T.s Potions unlike their Housemate. It's possible her 'turnover rate' is higher than average, and the situation with Harry is making that worse somehow. 

Alright, fine. She was a year younger than Harry and had dated more people, and maybe hadn't waited all that long between Michael and Dean and Dean and Harry, although it really isn't right to count Neville. But by that thinking, Parvati wouldn't count, and that thing with Cho was hardly dating, either. And now Harry's some kind of chaste heroic martyr, pining after Hermione or Gwenog depending on who tells the tale, and she's... she's becoming a witch of questionable repute. 

Fred had tried to warn her. 

She hadn't appreciated it.  
  


Ginny knows there were jokes about the seventh year boys having pretty good chances with her, and Kevin, a fifth year Muggle-born boy had thrown around terms like 'bicycle' or 'mattress' to much snickering. She has a sneaking suspicion that's the Muggle version of 'broom'. She'd hexed him on spec, just to be safe.

Half an hour later, bats were still coming out of his nose. She got a detention from McGonagall with Hagrid, but it was _so_ worth it. And Hagrid had just given her Rock Cakes when he heard why she was there.  
  


She's trying to decide if comments like that are sexist, or if it even _matters_ when people are making fun of you _why_ exactly they are. She has a gut feeling that the intention to _hurt_ must be there first, and given that, people will probably find a reason to tease. To mock. To harm. 

That it really doesn't matter if you've even done anything they might perceive as... _wrong_. 

It's up to her to try not to let it get to her. That's not always easy.  
  


And how about Ron, that filthy little hypocrite, who by similar logic had sort of dated three girls from that class, assuming Ravenclaw substitutions were allowed? Except there again, he's a year and a half older than she was, three was less than four, and he hadn't actually managed to get around to dating Hermione, so that's more like two. And Padma probably counted even less than Neville, when you consider Ron's unwillingness to even dance with her.  
  


Part of the problem is it's only the beginning of her sixth year, and she's the youngest in her class. But she's always spent a lot of time with people who were older. That's a natural side effect of being the youngest of seven siblings. Hermione, who was only a grade ahead of her was almost two years older. Or apparently _more_ if the Ministry can be trusted. Big 'if'. Ginny's still not sure how they can just reassign you a different age. 

This is probably all Hermione's fault for telling her to date other boys, marking time and getting experience until Harry pulled his head out of his arse. And then what had Hermione done? Had she taken her own advice? No, she'd never more than kissed Krum, and _that_ almost three years ago. Although that might have been Ron's fault for treating her as so thoroughly undesirable once he found out she had. 

That the reason he'd found out about it _at all_ was because Ginny had betrayed Hermione's confidence in the heat of an argument with him doesn't occur to her.  
  


Still casting about for others to compare herself to, Ginny keeps coming up with contrasts instead. It's not helping things any. 

_Cho_ had dated three wizards. But then you could hardly blame _her_ for not seeing _Cedric_ longer. He _died_ after all. And that thing with Harry two years ago barely counted, that's just as true for her as it was for Harry. So more like two... And there again, Cho was more than two years older than Ginny and that had been the sum of her experience by the end of her _seventh_ year... 

The only other Gryffindors in Ginny's year who had anywhere near as much dating experience as she had were Kiera Kilkenny and Dhanesh Devi; they'd been dating _each other_ for over two years now. So while they may have been dating almost as _long_ as she had, they'd still only had the _one_ partner each, and they were both almost a year older than she was...  
  


Regardless of the question of gender, Ginny is beginning to see where the numbers alone are against her. Fred may have had a point. She'll need to give some thought to how she manages this more judiciously from here on. 

She doesn't appreciate people looking at her like she might be the kind of witch not to pursue further qualifications. Like all she'd achieve are her N.E.W.T.s. at best. Like she might throw a promising career over after only a couple of years to start squeezing out little witches and wizards. Like she doesn't aspire to more than being a house witch. Nothing against her mum, but still...

Thinking about it, she decides that Fred and George being such notorious Leavers hadn't helped raise people's expectations of her. And it's not like Ron was terribly ambitious. Or particularly gifted. From what Harry had told her, Ron's apparently only a prefect because Dumbledore hadn't wanted to overburden _Harry_ with that job, too. Neither Fred nor George had managed to become prefects, either. People have forgotten all about Bill's, Charlie's and Percy's achievements. When they think of the Weasleys these days, they really don't seem to expect much beyond maybe Quidditch. 

It's disappointing.  
  


But she can't help thinking if she were still seeing Harry, how this, any of this, wouldn't be a topic at all right now. 

And yes, she holds it against him.  
  


Realistically, she decides the opinions probably aren't entirely sexist, and _again_ , she isn't even sure how much that matters either way, unlike the situation with the Order where everyone keeps excluding _her_. If she were being more rational, not exactly her strong suit, she would notice they didn't exclude Hermione, so it's not simply a question of gender roles. If she lives to be - what had Hermione said? - one hundred and thirty something, she'll still be the baby of the family, and they seem intent on keeping her there. 

Speaking of, today was another fine example. The Headmaster had taken aside the boys, just them, not her, and told them... something. They're _both_ extremely agitated, no question about it. And _neither one of them_ is willing to tell her a _thing_. She's spitting mad. And then Harry has the nerve to just stand there asking her to go keep Hermione company for dinner. 

Sure, because _that's_ all she's good for, to be a lady-in-waiting. He was lucky she hadn't hexed him. Well, _again_. 

If they want her cooperation, they're going to have to start including her more. This is just rubbish, and she's tired of rubbish. 

She's in this rather turbulent frame of mind as she enters the Common Room, and Lavender calls out to her. 

"Yeah, Lav, what's up?"

* * *

  


Sybill had laid it on rather thickly. She's... accomplished at that. One had to make the best of what one had, and one gets handed such momentous opportunities so _rarely_. That it would come at the expense of certain other parties... So be it. 

She isn't particularly fond of Snape, hasn't been since he took what may have been her one and only moment of clear sight, no, wait, there had been a second, and ran with it to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Name. _Bastard_. 

And she's even less fond of the bushy-haired little Granger chit. Everyone seems to think the sun shines out of her arse. The bint had had the unmitigated _nerve_ to disrespect _her_ in her own classroom in front a room full of other students. That's not how one treats a Seer of her pedigree. 

And Sybill hadn't come up with something adequately debilitating in response. That made it worse, naturally. 

So should her little panto makes things more difficult for either of them, she's quite comfortable with that. If her predictive powers remain true, a sherry driven smile spreads across her face at the thought, then Miss Brown should have spread the word by now. Sybill can hardly wait for the show when Albus makes the announcement. 

Tonight she'll forgo her usual solitary meal. It will be worth the clouding of her Inner Eye that facing the masses tends to bring on just to see it with her own two... Ah, the glasses, hard to overlook those, well then, _four_... Oh, and her Inner Eye, of course, five... Her own _five_ eyes. Yes, she wouldn't miss it for the world.

* * *

  


The Prophecy had been dramatic. Professor Trelawney had practically parked herself on Lav's table as she related it. 

The reasoning for that was simple. Firstly, Miss Brown was a fairly staunch supporter, unlike certain others, predominantly of her _own House_ , worse yet, who seemed to have taken her course primarily to pad their N.E.W.T.s statistics. Not that she hadn't done the same as a student, which is why she recognised the tactic so readily. Secondly, because Miss Brown was more closely connected to the individuals involved, the relevant Gryffindors, than any other student in Sybill's claw-like grasp, and she's relying heavily on the blonde spreading the word of her vision and her prophetic talents. 

Professor Trelawney had waved her hands emphatically as her scarves swirled about her, there's a scarcely known Charm for that, and intoning deeply in a strange sounding chant told all present how she foresaw, "Ginger lion's heartbreak, strivings thwarted, goals unreached. _Betrayal_ ," she'd paused significantly there, looking deep into Lav's eyes, "to have chosen _that_ partner over _you_..." 

For a moment, Lav felt herself transported back to late last April when she'd caught Hermione emerging from the boys' dorms with Ron. The moment _it_ had _ended_. Betrayal indeed. She only barely managed not to sob right there in class, trying desperately to preserve her dignity in front of the others. It was one thing for Vati to see her cry. Quite another in front of all the rest. 

And then the words sank in. This wasn't _her_ heartbreak. 

This was _Ron's_.  
  


The malicious smirk that spread all too obviously across her face reassured Sybill that the girl had taken her meaning. Job done. There was that sorted. It was just a question of hours now.

* * *

  


Lavender has had a few hours to think this through. She had spent all of DADA meditating on it, in fact, thank you so kindly, Professor Taylor. She finds all that time to reflect rather helpful after Professor Trelawney's course. It's _balancing_ , _grounding_ , and certainly far more pleasant than Professor Moody's, Umbridge's or Snape's DADA classes had been. She really doesn't know what the others are on about...

Having reflected, Lav is now certain about a handful of things. The prophecy was about Ron, the ginger lion. He and Hermione kept circling each other and have been for some time now. If he were going to break his heart any time in the near future, and one can only hope, not that she's vindictive, it would be over... _her_. Ron and Hermione will _never_ work, the very idea is absurd, _that much_ she is _sure_ of, no second sight required. But Ron's not capable of giving it a try without making the kind of spectacle out of it that Lavender has no desire whatsoever to be subjected to. The teasing alone she'll have to endure... 

For her own sanity, she needs to do something to see to it they never make a go of it. 

And given it was only going to end in his heartbreak anyway, she's not even being particularly mean to do so. 

Supremely satisfied with herself, and feeling quite justified, she tests her thinking. She really is so much more clever than people think. 

She is _positive_ the prophecy was about Ron. The ginger lion? Who else would it be? 

She's lived with Hermione too long not to know that those two aren't suited, and she learnt some things about the boy from dating Ron last year. She'd had a young witch's hopes for romance, maybe more than normal, but nothing too ridiculous, and Ron had definitely _not_ been the wizard to make them come true. Hermione can claim to be above stuff like that just as long and loudly as she wants, but everyone saw how floaty her Yule dress robes were. _Never mind_ how smart and driven she is, somewhere in that swotty chest beats the heart of a hopeful romantic. 

One thing is clear, Ron _will_ disappoint her, and Hermione will eventually move on. If she had any sense of worth she'd have already done so. Secretly, Lav wishes she herself had had the strength to do so when he'd disappointed _her_. She decides to frame her behaviour more in terms of 'loyalty', 'persistence' and 'dedication', or the 'courage to keep trying' and less as 'desperation', and promptly likes herself a little more.  
  


Lav sees Ron much more clearly now, for what that's worth, with time and some emotional distance, such as she can manage anyway, to their relationship. 

Parvati had introduced her to Gaston, a _very_ nice wizard from Beauxbatons, last summer. Naturally, dating him had helped. Quite a bit. Did _wonders_ for her confidence. 

Now _there_ was a man who new his way around a nice wine instead of just throwing back the Butterbeers. He knew how to flatter, to speak, to kiss, to caress... The words he found to charm his way into her affections. And further... _Merlin_. And _English_ wasn't even his first language. 

A certain ginger could take lessons. 

Maybe _she_ should take up French?

Gaston had been absolutely splendid, and she'd had a simply marvellous summer. She smiles just thinking about him...  
  


But that's neither here nor there. Unless 'there' is France. Pity he'd had to return... Well, there's always next summer. She sighs.  
  


The _problem_ , returning to the task at hand, is Ron's _here_. And an _eventual_ heartbreak, no matter how reliably _guaranteed_... although she's extremely gratified to know Professor Trelawney is of a mind with her on this, but that _still_ won't make her feel any better if she has to watch Ron snogging Hermione all over the castle. And all the while Gaston is back in France and half the people she knows would probably question if he even exists... Lav knows better than _anyone_ that Ron is overly fond of a _very_ public show, he _always_ has something to prove, and that's just not something she needs to see.  
  


Although she doesn't think Hermione is quite the witch for it either. 

Still...  
  


She's dead certain the prophecy was about Ron. Ron and Hermione. She won't pretend otherwise, not to herself. There isn't a shred of doubt in her mind. But. The wording is just as applicable to _Ginny_. Ginny and Harry, if Harry fell for someone else... 

_Or_ , and this is where Lav's quite certain she might be brilliant, Ron _and_ Ginny _both_ having their hearts broken, if _Harry and Hermione_ came together. It could have been 'lions'' and not 'lion's', who's to say? It's not like these things are _printed_. 

And Lav is _quite_ sure, with the way Ginny's been storming around the Tower, the looks she's thrown, sometimes at Harry, sometimes at Hermione... Lav is pretty sure if she spins her story just so, she can get Ginny to start lobbying against Hermione. 

That will carry over to Ron, one way or the other, and with just a bit of luck, no 'Romione'. She lives in hope. 

There was a chance, a very slim chance, that Ginny could then try for all she's worth to match Hermione up with Ron, but if she's convinced Hermione would break his heart... And Lavender thinks she's got Ginny pegged, she won't be able to fake being friendly when she's angry. And since Hermione and Ron have had difficulties since the Registration Act, and Hermione pretty much sided with Harry on his breakup with Ginny... Lav is certain she's got it locked. Alohomora proof. 

It's brilliant. She should have been in Ravenclaw. 

Or Slytherin. 

And so as soon as Ginny begins to listen, Lav lets loose, the fact she spots Ron eavesdropping just around the corner suddenly makes this so much better. She layers even more fake trappings on top of the already fake prophecy, not that she knows that. As Ginny's eyes begin to widen, and her face goes a very deep red, Lav knows she has the girl hooked. 

She's fairly certain she can see Ron's ears going red where he's lurking, too. It takes some effort on her part to resist the urge to smirk. 

It occurs to her that there's a real chance that Ron and Harry's relationship will suffer for this. She doesn't care. It isn't like Harry had done anything to support _her_ relationship with Ron. Provided her insights, given her advice... On the contrary, he'd sat there consoling _Hermione_. Did he tell _her_ to give up on Ron? To move on? It sure didn't seem like it. And her own roommate had chased after Lavender's boyfriend every chance she got. No, Lav doesn't really care if this causes any of them problems or not.  
  


Of course, it's not long at all before Lavender realises that the prophecy was apparently about Hermione and _Professor Snape_. Within an hour, _everything's_ changed. She really _couldn't_ have foreseen that. And then she also comes to understand that there was never any danger _whatsoever_ of 'Romione' or 'Heron' or whatever they'd have been, particularly in light of Hermione's bond and Vows. Naturally it followed that the ginger lion's heartbreak was currently in full force... Poor Wonwon. If _only_ she'd _known_. 

About then she'll be a little sorry she dragged Ginny and by extension Harry into things. At least Ginny shouldn't have to worry about Harry too much now. Gwenog Jones seems a highly unlikely threat. 

Lav fails to take into consideration the difference it makes that Ginny wasn't there for Hermione, wasn't _supportive_ when her friend needed her. In the weeks to come, Lav and quite a few other lions will have occasion to regret this decision on her part, not that she'll ever fully understand the connection to her own actions. That's what comes of her shit stirring.  
  


Well, not even _she_ can be all knowing.

* * *

  


By the time Ron enters the Common Room, not long thereafter, Lav has Ginny worked up to a fevered pitch. Any vestigial desire she might have had to check on Hermione evaporates as she pictures her clenched in a tight embrace, snogging Harry till his glasses fog over; it's unlikely either of them know the Charm to stop it. It's more than she can take on top of everything else just now. 

When Ron begins whinging about... She has no idea what he wants, she's not listening. She tears into him about the second class membership in the Order she has. He points out she's only sixteen, not even of age, and she proceeds to detail how much more accomplished she is in every regard that matters. He feels just inches tall mere minutes into her haranguing. Gin's got absolutely deadly aim, with and without her wand, and she's taking no prisoners.

* * *

  


By the time _Harry_ makes it to the Common Room, Ginny and Ron are going at it hammer and tongs; it borders on a wonder no one has been hexed yet, at least not irreparably. Ron seems to be listing to one side, and his right cheek is a deep red. Probably a Stinging Hex. There's no sign of Lav, she's left for dinner, and Harry has no idea what caused things to escalate like this. Any question in his mind as to whether Ron should go down to the Great Hall for the meal or not evaporates, and now he's just worried Ginny is going to get there too late. 

"You know what? I don't care if you go or not!" Ron's screaming at her. "In fact, stay here why don't you? Yeah, that sounds like a _brilliant_ idea! You won't regret that at all." 

Harry can't believe she's still there. He casts a Tempus and swears. Dinner's already starting. Hermione's probably there alone. 

"Merlin, Gin, you haven't left yet? What are you still doing here?"

"All you have to do is tell me what's going on," she snits back at Harry resentfully. "But I'm not going until you do."

"Please, Gin. Can you get down there _now_? _Please_? I just asked you for _one_ favour."

"Oh, yes, to go hold Hermione's hand during dinner." The sarcasm just drips from her response. 

"You don't have to hold her hand," he replies, his exasperation clear, but his frustration is beginning to get the overhand. Dinner is starting, _now_ , Dumbledore will be making his announcement, and Harry's pretty sure Hermione shouldn't be there on her own for it. 

He's right, but it's a poorly considered plan. That's hardly surprising because it's completely his, and he's not exactly firing on all cylinders at the moment. Ron definitely _shouldn't_ be there for the announcement. He's right about that. It won't help matters, quite the contrary. 

Well, unless someone applies a Full-body Bind. And a Langlock. And probably a Stunner, Harry thinks looking at the still furious redhead. 

He also shouldn't be left alone.  
  


That it might be better to have someone provide support for _Hermione_ who doesn't also have to process the news... But the problem is Ron really needs someone he could talk to, not that he seems inclined to do so... No, he seems kind of shouty at the moment, and isn't exactly communicating much. He hadn't been, really, since Dumbledore gave them the news. But Ginny doesn't understand what's going on with him. All of which is why Harry is quite sure _he_ should stay with Ron instead. 

There again, that his other friend will be facing the _entire school's_ reactions _very publicly should_ cross his mind, but... Truthfully, Harry is still exceptionally put out by the whole thing and finding it difficult to _want_ to be there for her. But he _did_ arrange for _Ginny_ to be. He's not a completely horrible person. It's just that despite his best intentions, somehow Ginny's still _there_.  
  


Maybe he should have spoken to Neville. 

Of course, once the announcement is made, Neville will probably be worse off than Ginny. Well it's too late now, either way.

"You want to know what this is about, Gin? Get _down_ there! You're far more likely to find out what's going on _there_ than _here_ , and I can guarantee you, if you wait much longer, you'll probably be the _only one_ left in the castle not to know. Now _get going_!"

She doesn't like his tone, she _hates_ being bossed about. That's a fairly normal response to being the youngest of so many children. But there's something in Harry's voice, more than a little desperate, and Ginny finally feels convinced. 

With a "Fine," and a glare thrown backwards over her shoulder at the two boys, she walks towards the portrait hole. 

As she steps through to head for the Great Hall, Ron calls after her, "Hey! Bring me back something to eat will you?" 

He's grumbling as the door falls shut, not sure she heard him or if she agreed. Harry just goggles. "What?" Ron whinges. "I'm hungry."

Harry's briefly kind of disgusted that _that_ is Ron's priority here, but he knows his friend, and how he deals with trouble, and giving him the benefit of the doubt decides he's repressing the actual issue. He claps his hand on Ron's shoulder and reassures him, "We can always sneak out later and get something using the map if she doesn't bring anything back."

The smile Ron gives him in return is anything but convinced.

  



	49. 11 10l Monday - Going to Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Severus and Hermione, Crooks_   
>  _Sunny in absentia_

Severus doesn't emerge from his office until it's almost time to go to dinner. He managed to get a reasonable amount of work done, making serious inroads into the backlog the... _unproductive_ weekend had created. He scoffs at the thought and now finds himself seriously questioning his priorities. Because what he _really_ wants for an epitaph is 'He graded promptly'. Better than Lockhart anyway, who had issues returning assignments _at all_ , never mind in a timely fashion. 

He would have _liked_ to have gotten some brewing in, but he has too many commitments, too many duties. Brewing at this point is strictly a preventive measure, and a redundant one at that. He's more than caught up on what they _need_. With the trouble they will soon face, he _knows_ they will face, he _never_ allows their stores to run low. Brewing provides him with a sense of comfort, peace. It's something he can do to make the future more secure, and it's something he does _well_. Each phial he fills will make things _that_ much better, and it's _tangible_. Everything else he does... The price is steep, and Merlin only knows if any of it will ever pay dividends.

And then there's his... special _project_. Thinking of plans that may never come to fruition... His latest _incredibly_ secret mission - but weren't they all? - from Albus. They're... _He's_ still no closer to being able to brew the antidote to Merlin's Invincibility Potion.  
  


That's inaccurate. They're _much_ closer. But that distinction doesn't matter in the least if they _can't_ , and they can't. At present anyway.

He has _most_ of the required ingredients. Albus has bankrolled their acquisition, and Severus has spent months sourcing them. It's been remarkably difficult to do so without attracting unwanted attention. He has only two deliveries he still needs to receive before that aspect is as completed as can be at present. They should be in his hands soon, but there's sadly no rush. 

He's reasonably certain he has deciphered the brewing instructions. Calling them instructions is rather a stretch, it's more a series of clues. But understanding the properties of the ingredients as he does, he was able to anticipate what the instructions _must_ be. It won't achieve _that_ thickness unless chopped a specific way and added at a certain time at a precise temperature. And it wouldn't turn _this_ colour unless stirred in just such a manner.

Truthfully, he had enjoyed puzzling that out. Immensely. The most cryptic of crosswords. Only someone with his knowledge, his skills could do so. Were the _reason_ for doing so _any_ other... That might well have been the crowning achievement of his career. Except naturally it can't be publicised. They could never risk it. 

This must be how Flamel had felt having made the Philosopher's Stone, only he became nigh immortal for his pains. Severus has a feeling _his own_ efforts are far more likely to guarantee his _death_. 

Nevertheless, it _had_ been a source of some pride to know how long it had taken the Dark Lord to work through the problem despite the help _he_ had. Severus has done so on his _own_. 

With three. Fucking. Exceptions.  
  


There are still three ingredients he hasn't deciphered. If he doesn't know what they are, there is no way to even begin the search for them. Given how rare some of the other things had been, it's a source of worry. 

Rather a lot of worry. 

Still, eighteen of twenty-one ingredients and a firm idea of how to proceed once he has them all, not bad in the least for the short amount of time he's had to dedicate to the problem. 

He's hoping, and isn't that ironic, the fact they're so obscurely described is because they're so commonplace. _Ridiculously_ commonplace. ' _The dirt from his shoe_ ', ' _the crust from his bread_ ', ' _the lint from his pocket_ ', ' _a hair from his head..._ ' He snorts. By the pricking of his thumbs, the hairs from Argus's ears or nostrils would be far more likely. Yes, he's hoping that this must be some kind of final puzzle, and it annoys him greatly not to have solved it. 

And of course the outcome of the entire war effort relies on it. Which was clearly more important. 

If less vexing. 

Fucking hell. It could be almost _anything_.  
  


It's not much consolation, in fact it should be another source of great concern, but Albus doesn't seem to have gotten any closer to the items he's searching for in order for them to be able to recreate Salazar Slytherin's work. Only one of four articles found, and that one will probably cost him his life. It's unclear how effective just recreating Merlin's formula would be if they _don't_ manage that. Not that it will stop them from trying.

They _must_ try. They really haven't any choice in the matter.  
  


All considered, Severus is probably better off grading papers. 

Seriously. 

It gives him something else to do, allows him time to take his mind off those frustrating items. He keeps expecting some inspiration to occur if only he does that long enough. Merlin knows, it had helped with the rest. He's been at this for nearly six months total now, although the first months had been spent in an exhaustive effort to locate an exceptionally rare grimoire that contained Merlin's notes on the potion in the appendix.  
  


He pushes the stack of graded papers to the side, stoppers his red ink bottle and puts his desk to rights. He sorts his lesson plans for the week to come, laying out the instructions for each of the classes, adding notes where needed to indicate each group's progress. He's glad the sixth year N.E.W.T.s class double Potions is done for the week. They seem especially cursed. Kurz' class will be brewing again this week. He adds another note to explain _that_ particular danger.  
  


He could feel _her_ growing increasingly nervous through the bond as the dining hour approaches. He conjectures it's more due to the fact the Headmaster means to announce their bonding to the school than the number of Slytherins she can expect to encounter in the corridors, extrapolating from her reactions earlier in the day, and isn't _that_ a whole cauldron of knowledge he'd have preferred to be without. Damn Albus and the bond. While he can follow her reasoning, he thinks she is still underestimating the problem the Slytherins present. 

Well, _that_ at least should be diminished after the announcement. He very much doubts _any_ of them would dare harass his... wife. Small favours. 

That will probably be the only good thing to come of it.  
  


When he can't sensibly put it off any longer, he returns to their chambers.

* * *

  


Hermione has cast a Tempus for the fourth time in the past quarter of an hour alone. She's finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate on the text in front of her. But she's learnt three pertinent Charms, to Vanish fur, to render clothing and home furnishings specifically Impervius to pets (who knew drool was such an issue?), and even one for grooming that she hadn't deliberately set out to look for. She's pleased with the results.

She's hoping the Professor will be as well. 

And then decides that was silly.  
  


She's trying to screw up the courage to go to the Great Hall for dinner, and wondering if it might be better to skip it, at least tonight. She remembers her promise to Luna, to eat something, and debates if she can have Sunny bring her a meal here. What was it? A _sensible_ meal. Then promptly dismisses it as taking a liberty too far. She couldn't, she hasn't the nerve. And she can't help thinking Luna will be disappointed and assume the worst if Hermione doesn't put in an appearance. She finds herself reluctant to disappoint her friend. 

Just as she acknowledges she'll make no more progress in the books and decides she needs to make up her mind about dinner instead, she's startled when the door furthest along the wall to her left, the side with the fireplace, opens and the Potions Master steps into the room just beyond the dining table.

* * *

  


He could have predicted it. His talents are every bit as good as Sybill's, he mocks to himself. There's Miss Granger, curled up in... her chair with the furry monster nestled on her lap, the pile of books he'd left for her clearly scanned, by the bookmarks visible in two of them, some even quite thoroughly addressed. 

He shouldn't be surprised, but is, at least a little, to discover the remains of her refreshment lying on a napkin on the end table beside her. She's been eating grapes. Again. That had already struck him as odd this morning.  
  


She catches a quick glimpse of the room he leaves just before the door closes, and believes it's his office. That leaves only two doors left unidentified in the room. One will probably be his bedroom, she thinks as she pinks. Nibbling her lower lip ever so slightly, not that it goes unnoticed, she pretends to have no idea why that could be embarrassing. 

He surprises her even further when he speaks, "Are you _particularly_ fond of..." Her blush becomes more apparent, he can't imagine why, and the sensation of _feeling_ her embarrassment in addition to _seeing_ it is incredibly strange, "...them?" He queries, indicating the fruit, and mulling over her reaction. 

It wasn't where she thought that question was going, she has _no idea_ where she thought it was going, and yet somehow it's still worse. If there was a hint of pink to her cheeks before, they're now rather furiously red. _That's_ revealing; the bond does the rest. She feels... caught. She likes them, he can tell, but she may have... _other_ reasons for having selected them. 

He _prefers_ not to think about it, but can't seem to stop himself either. It's in his nature to get to the bottom of anomalies, to investigate possible threats. "Did you ask Sunny for them?" 

"No!" She's quick to deny. "I hadn't even considered doing so." Merlin, she hadn't even dared ask for _dinner_ , she sure wasn't going to ask for _snacks_. 

He nods, as if _that_ explained anything. She can't imagine what. 

It only serves to confirm his suspicions. Sunny is indeed playing silly buggers. The grapes _hadn't_ been there last night, she _doesn't_ particularly favour them for their own merits, although he now finds himself thinking wryly that they'll undoubtably be gaining in popularity, so the only reason to have placed them in the bowl is... He thinks with a shudder about Miss Granger's... _portmanteau_. About which she also seems to have been thinking when she chose them over the perfectly lovely specimens of apples and oranges in the bowl, were he to go by her blush. His eyes narrow. The... portmanteau which seems to appeal to the elf about as much as it does to the witch. 

Merlin help him if these two decide to align against him. 

"May I?" She asks. His thoughts since drifted, he's not sure what she means. She's probably _not_ asking permission to collude with the elf... "Ask him for something? If I need something."

"Naturally. That should go without saying," he readily agrees, inclined, erroneously, to find the question more foolish than polite. 

And yet she smiles in reply, relieved to hear it. "I was hoping for more kippers and some tinned food for Crooks." Said cat leaps from her lap and she rises. 

' _The fish from his fridge..._ ' Well, apparently not any longer. 

He just blinks at her a moment before answering. "I was thinking more along the lines of food for yourself, but I'm certain he'll be happy to accommodate your needs, whatever they may be." Sunny is pretty much always eager to please, but Severus wonders if that will still apply if the ginger monster becomes the beneficiary of Sunny's exertions. It crosses his mind that _might_ factor into the equation as he watches her familiar stalk towards his bowl of milk in the kitchen. 

' _Wet milk off whiskers..._ '

"I found a Charm to Vanish the fur," she reports with some satisfaction, Vanishing the grape stems and napkin instead. 

' _A gram of Granger's grapes..._ '

"I should hope so. That was rather the purpose of those texts," he returns dryly. She's just a breath away from being irritated with his response before it dawns on her to listen to their bond, and she smiles instead. He in turn finds it a little irritating that the bond is sabotaging his ability to tease. 

He has so few pleasures in life... 

She just waves her wand and recites the Charm instead, and indeed, there is no longer any sign the furry feline had been on her lap moments ago. 

He purses his lips in consideration and then informs her, "It will do, but what I'd prefer is a Charm for automatically Banishing the fur to a specific location. Did you encounter one?"

"You mean like the bin?" She asks, not quite following. _Vanishing_ the fur strikes her as far more practical. Why deal with it twice?

"For example. A given receptacle." He expands with a shrug, explaining nothing. 

"Whatever for?" She replies, the bond apparently lulling her into a sense of security sufficient to dare to do so. "Why would you wish to _collect_ it?"

He's curiously more amused by that then irritated, and answers in Slytherin best form. "I understand knitted Kneazle fur hats are popular in the northern parts of Eastern Europe." 

That doesn't seem to satisfy her. It probably shouldn't. It's a non-answer, although it's truly astonishing for just how many people that's perfectly adequate. "There's an elderly Squib in the Order who might be interested in pursuing an extra revenue stream." The beauty, naturally, lies in both statements being _absolutely_ true. That neither have anything _remotely_ to do with Banishing the fur directly to Crabbe's bed as he _intends_ is completely beside the point. 

"Mrs. Figg?" She replies a little too quickly for his taste, and with a sort of happy note that's now making him vaguely uncomfortable. "That's _really_ nice of you," she beams and promises to look for such a Charm. 

And just like that, he now feels a bit guilty to be cheating a senior out of the half-Kneazle fur she didn't even know she wanted. Bugger. He'll have to send her a little envelope come Christmas. 

Anonymously, of course.  
  


He hasn't a clue how he managed to manoeuvre himself into that.

* * *

  


"We should speak about how you will approach the Headmaster's announcement this evening," he's forced to tell her, and just as quickly as her pleasure appeared, it's gone. Peculiarly, he realises he preferred her... happier, and now also feels guilty for raising this topic, but they really have no choice. 

"What would you like me to do?" It's so simple, so... cooperative, that it throws him a moment, but only briefly. 

"I believe the best reaction you could have is _none_. To remain stoic, as unaffected as possible by the announcement and collective response." She chews her lip, somewhat brutally, and he can follow her thoughts all too clearly; neither Legilimency nor the bond are required. He's rather inclined to agree with the woman. "I understand that will be... difficult." She lets out a huff of extremely dark laughter to which he can only nod his agreement. 

He reaches into his pocket and pulls forth a phial. "I don't expect you to be able to do so unassisted. I have some Draught of Peace for you, should you wish it."

"Madam Pomfrey had given me Calming Draught. Will that be an issue?"

"When did you take it last?"

"Before we left our quarters this morning." Both of them blink, considering the statement. It's correct, and isn't that... The way things are now. There's no sense in belabouring the point. 

Still, he has to swallow before he can answer. "Then it will be perfectly fine. That potion will have worn off by now, and this is a _very_ small dose. It will last an hour, just for dinner, no longer. You can return to your Calming Draught regimen after that should you wish, and it won't interfere." 

She doesn't bother pointing out she doesn't have any more Draught anyway. She just takes the phial with a slightly nervous, "Thank you for thinking of it, Sir."

He gives her a wry smile in return, "Think nothing of it, Miss Granger. I'm sure it will spare my nerves as well."

Without the bond, she might have found the comment somewhat biting, but with it... 

Nevertheless, Hermione isn't entirely sure where she gets the confidence from, but she finds herself teasing him back. "And here I thought you weren't going to have me trying to accommodate your needs to my own detriment."

He actually snorts his amusement at that. Her memory is a dangerous thing. "I assure you, Miss Granger, there's nothing _remotely_ detrimental about it when brewed by my hand."

The answering smile she gives him as she's considering his hands leaves him unexpectedly just a _bit_ off kilter. 

He gives himself a shake, "Shall we then?"

"Not much point in putting it off, I suppose." 

It's possible they both sigh softly in resignation before they cross to the door. When they reach it, he pauses and raises his wand and an eyebrow in query. She's puzzled, but not reluctant, and simply nods her consent, at which he taps her rather gently on the head with his wand. She can feel that odd sensation, like a gloopy fluid is dripping quickly completely down her body as she's rendered nearly indistinguishable from their surroundings. It was strange, but that was... warmer than usual. And she can tell his work is better than her own Disillusionment Charm just by looking at herself. Not that she can see herself, but that was rather the point. 

"There will be too many people in the hallways at present. It will undoubtedly be easier if you aren't noticed." He'd suggested the stratagem earlier, it should have come as no surprise. She nods her understanding before realising he can't see it. 

"Of course, Sir. I agree completely." 

"I'd also like to cast a Notice-Me-Not just to be sure."

"I really don't think it's needed," she answers with audible admiration, but readily positioning herself for him to perform the Charm. Not that he can tell. 

It occurs to him her tone is neither uncooperative nor argumentative. She's genuinely impressed. It's almost flattering, for all of half a second, before it crosses his mind to be insulted that she'd have expected less from him. Sometimes he can't be helped. 

" _I_ do. You aren't invisible, Miss Granger, merely difficult to see."

"Oh, I wasn't objecting, Sir. If you think it's necessary, I'll bow to your expertise." 

And isn't _that_ an image. Not that the image is all too visible just now. Still. Perplexing little witch. 

Another wave of his wand, and not even he knows where she's standing. 

Hermione laughs as she realises it. "After you, Sir."

"Try to follow somewhat closely if you can. It should make navigating around others along the way easier." She's about to object that the main issue with _that_ is keeping up with his long strides when he chuckles, "I _meant_ if the people in the hallway permit it. I'll make certain to go more slowly so you can keep up. Satisfactory?"

"Thank you, Sir," she answers, still a little surprised when he's considerate or jokes, but rather coming to like it all the same. And with an invisible smile on her face she follows him out of their chambers, which is a fairly impressive response, considering she hasn't quaffed the potion yet.

* * *

  


The trip to the Great Hall is uneventful. People readily make way for him, he slowed his pace as promised, and Hermione following closely behind had no issue whatsoever keeping up. Before long they're standing in front of the doors to their destination. 

He can't see her, he's done a surprisingly good job rendering her unnoticeable. Magic is all about intent, and he suspects he had no desire to be caught with her leaving his chambers.  
  


For all the difference the extra hour would make. 

That's not quite correct. The rumours, and there _will_ be rumours, will be quite different in tenor once news of their bonding is announced. Not necessarily better, naturally. No. It's never simple, never... pleasant. Briefly he thinks he should have taken a phial of Draught of Peace for himself. He's not serious about that in the least, that's simply dark humour. No, _this_ is what Occluding is for. Fortunately, he's a master of the art.

He listens to the bond and turns to face... nothing, and still he's sure she's there. An invisible hand reaches out of that nothing to touch his, to help him locate her and confirming that conviction, and he's momentarily taken aback by the soft, _unflinching_ contact, by her... warmth. There's nothing hesitant about her touch and that strikes him as highly counterintuitive. 

He stands there, impassive, he's practised, as a small group of students scurry past to enter the Hall. She carefully waits until no one is visible, but seems to have forgotten to withdraw her hand as she does. He's a little puzzled to find himself not minding that she lingered. It strikes him as _exceedingly_ strange, standing there in front of the Great Hall as people pass with his... wife still holding his hand, as though it were perfectly normal. 

Not that anyone could see it. 

When they are alone, she speaks, softly, to reduce the risk of being overheard should anyone suddenly burst through the doors. "If you'd care to go ahead, Sir? I'll wait here for a few moments before following." He lifts the Charms shielding her from sight, and she reappears before him, visibly somewhat nervous, which the bond had already communicated, but with a determined smile on her face. Only then does she seem to notice her hand is still resting on his and removes it. He's left considering why he'd risked making her visible _before_ she'd done so. It's even more disturbing when he can't come up with a good answer. 

"No, Miss Granger, not this time. I think it would be for the best if you went in first. If there is any... difficulty... Potter and Weasley didn't take the news particularly well," her eyes widen dramatically just at the thought, and his head bobs minutely in acknowledgment of that. "If there should be any... commotion... If I go first and you enter and there were trouble, it would attract far more attention were I to need to step down from the Head Table to sort it. If you go first and I follow, I can take any action needed less obtrusively as I make my way through the room." 

She smiles broadly at that; he chooses to ignore it. This is simply a question of tactics and she's a obviously a bit daft. But he can see the understanding and acceptance play across her face. And _trust_.

_That's_ unusual enough that he finds himself trying to give her an encouraging smile. It's not much of one, that's hardly his strength, it's possible the corners of his mouth raise only the smallest fraction of an inch, but the bond tells her she has his support. She can _count on him_ in this. 

"Take your potion and go ahead. I won't be a moment," he reassures her.  
  


Taking him at his word, she does.

  



	50. 11 10m Monday - The Announcement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hermione, Severus, Albus, Fay, Georgina, Misc. Students_

Hermione looks around before taking a seat. Her friends aren't there, although that's probably a relief. She might even _feel_ that relief had she not just taken the Draught of Peace. That's some powerful stuff. She gravitates to the end of the table where the seventh years tend to sit, closer to the Head Table, subconsciously choosing the side from which she can observe the Professor's spot. Seamus and Dean are on the opposite side, deep in a discussion, if one can call it that, about one of the latest Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. 

Ah. Ron's Dirty Draught. Of course. No, wait, _Draught of Dirt_. He's right, that makes _all_ the difference. 

Seamus' ' _BOOM_ ' is clearly more captivating than Ron's, and soon a few of the fifth and sixth year boys are drawn into their conversation. 

No Neville, no Ginny. It's hard to imagine Weasleys missing meals. That's one of the things they can pretty much be relied upon for. Something of a universal constant, their attendance at meals. 

Not even Lavender is there. And Parvati appears to have snuck over to the Ravenclaw table; she's sitting next to her sister, their heads together, enthusiastically chatting about something and lost to the world. 

Fay and Georgina seem to have resumed their debate from Friday about revolutionising Quidditch with the use of any or all of a variety of magical animals. Knowing the two of them, it's entirely possible they haven't stopped in between. That's one thing Hermione _hadn't_ missed in the Infirmary and _won't_ miss thanks to her bonding, listening to the two of them.  
  


Nevertheless, with few appealing options available, she slides into the seat next to Georgina, just a little down from most of the sixth years, thinking Ginny is sure to come soon. 

Had she an inkling of the mood Ginny is in, she'd have probably packed it in now.  
  


She's barely had time to take her seat when Professor Snape comes striding down the Hall. She'd noticed it in the hallway on their way here, the way people get out of his way. How everyone is very aware of him, and yet no one stares. He commands a great deal of attention. Respect. It makes a difference somehow watching that, and the response, knowing you're... allied to that person. She begins to gently bite her lip as she watches him progress. 

Whatever else it may be, the gesture is far from nervous. 

_She_ likes to think of it as contemplative. While she's definitely _contemplating_ , the pivotal question is 'what', and even she's aware it's disingenuous to phrase it like that. The Draught keeps that realisation from being even remotely embarrassing. How convenient. 

He's very subtle, nonchalant, but somehow they manage to make eye contact. Probably because Hermione isn't subtle in the least, has been staring at him steadily, and all he needed to do was look her way in the slightest. He lifts one eyebrow marginally in question, and she tries to give him only a faint nod and the hint of a smile in response. 

Things are alright here. There's no trouble. _Yet_. 

Hermione still doesn't realise that was completely unnecessary because the bond had already made _that_ abundantly clear. The interaction was solely to further soothe her nerves. Had she known, she'd have taken it for... kind. Maybe even sweet. He takes it for a sensible precaution. The truth would lie somewhere in between.  
  


Finally unable to listen to her roommates' Quidditch talk silently any longer, Hermione turns to them and tells Georgina that her idea to use winged horses for Quidditch is hardly original. That information is predictably well received. The girls blink, startled both at the interruption and the fact Hermione would know anything at all about the topic. Her disdain for Quidditch borders on legend. Naturally they are all the more shocked when she begins citing chapter and verse from 'Quidditch Through the Ages'. 

Hermione has precious little patience for their ignorance. It's possible her anticipation of the reaction to the Headmaster's announcement is making her more peevish than usual. Without the potion in her system, it would certainly be worse. Far worse. And she'd _never_ have sat still listening to such utter tosh as long as she had. She probably would have interrupted whole _minutes_ before... Although, it couldn't have happened any earlier than that as she hasn't been there all that long. 

It's unfathomable. If even _she_ knows the relevant material from 'Quidditch Through the Ages', she has no sympathy whatsoever for them not _also_ doing so. Holy Cricket. But then there's a difference between reading and _retaining_ and right now she questions their retention. Severely. 

"The problem, naturally," she drones authoritatively, and isn't _that_ a kick, "is that Lord Withers used _Aethonans_ ; it's quite well documented." Fay just stares at her in disbelief. "What he _should_ have done, of course, was use _Granians_ instead." And now Georgina joins her friend in goggling. Hermione isn't even _in_ Care of Magical Creatures. This is ridiculous. 

"They're _much_ faster," Hermione proceeds, oblivious to or uncaring of the reception. "But it's unclear if the speed alone would have made any difference, as _his_ adaptation of the game never gained in popularity. And by extension, that would presumably be true for any of your proposed constellations as well. You know how wizards like their brooms," she explains.

That last part fell in a natural lull in the conversations, it was unavoidable, and seems to echo down the table.

As Lavender climbs into the seat across from him, Dhanesh turns with a malicious grin to the fifth year who had teased Ginny about her love life, " _That's_ what Kev tried telling Ginny." There's a good deal of laughter at his expense, as the boy reflexively shields his nose and winces at the memory. "And look what it got him." 

Colin _just so happens_ to have a picture from the occasion of the Bat Bogey hex in full force that he apparently both carries with him and is perfectly happy to pass around, should anyone have forgotten or missed it. That garners more laughs from the other Gryffindors. 

"Bicycles," Kevin mutters, "not brooms," but it's lost in their teasing. "Numpties," he grumbles as Lavender starts telling some of the fifth and sixth years about the prophecy from Divination today.  
  


Georgina, meanwhile, is at a bit of a loss. She has no idea at all how to respond to Hermione. "Uh..." This is one of her and Fay's favourite theoretical debates, and easily half the point of it was that it isn't _meant_ to have a resolution. They've spent weeks throwing their ideas and arguments around, disputing, claiming, refuting, and Hermione just swoops in and says she has the answer. 

There are days she'd kind of like to hex her. 

_And_ have Colin take a picture of it while she's at it. Those last longer. 

That her probability of success in that regard should be relatively low given Hermione had advanced to both N.E.W.T.s DADA and Charms, while she hadn't managed an O.W.L. in _either_ , doesn't occur to her. Georgina is a little simple in that respect. But had she listened to her Housemates' complaints about their DADA sessions this year, she might have felt a bit heartened. 

Fay has no such problems, she simply pretends to ignore Hermione. "Hey, Georgina, have you heard the Twisted Sisters' latest? 'Ride the Granian'?" 

Georgina looks confused by the change in topic and wonders ever so briefly if the mention of Granians had called something to Fay's mind. It's especially puzzling because she's fairly certain the Sisters _aren't_ actually releasing anything _at all_ these days. In fact, there'd been quite the series of articles in the 'Prophet' about it all term. 

Lead singer Myron Wagtail had gone on hiatus last year and started moderating a show on Radio 6 'Wagtail's Wizarding Wireless Sunday Service'. But W3S2 wouldn't necessarily keep him from recording. No, _that_ would be the fact Wagtail had jumped on stage in protest during Warbeck's performance at the Ministry's Awesome Music Awards ceremony. 'Witch Weekly' had nominated him for an Order of Merlin for the MAMA stunt, not that it had any effect. 

Arabicus Cocker, Celestina's fourth husband and current manager, or perhaps it was the other way around, a wizard heretofore known only for his Charm to make eyeglasses stay magically on one's face, had demanded Myron's arrest, and the singer was currently being held at the Ministry's leisure. _Where precisely_ was anyone's guess and the subject of much speculation. 

So, no, there were no new releases. 

Which is only confirmed when Fay continues, the sarcasm in her tone becoming increasingly obvious, "They recorded it very quickly, _much faster_ than usual, but I doubt it will become _popular_ , you know how wizards like their tunes," at which point even Hermione recognises she's taking the Mickey. Fay can be mean that way. 

That trait bothers Georgina, well, _sometimes_ , because even though Hermione can be an officious windbag, at least she's not really doing it deliberately unlike Fay. Hermione just seems to come by it naturally. Georgina is sure, well, _reasonably_ , that makes it easier to forgive, even if not more pleasant.  
  


Hermione takes the hint, somewhat belatedly, and as her roommates resume their conversation turns away in time to see Neville come rushing in. He slips into the free seat next to Dean, begins putting food on the plate that appears before him and telling the others about how he's just managed to convince Professor Sprout to allow him to work extra hours in the greenhouse. No one's really listening, naturally. The boys aren't particularly interested in that kind of thing, especially not when Seamus is telling stories that go ' _BOOM_ '. 

Hermione _would_ have been interested, but he's seated too far away for them to be able to talk easily. She's just able to follow that he was trying to work out the details for an internship - which she thinks is an absolutely _brilliant_ idea - with the Herbology Professor, but she had insisted it was terribly important they not skip the meal. 

Hermione has a sinking feeling as to why, and it has nothing to do with Professor Sprout's obvious fondness for food.  
  


Sure enough, it's not long before the Headmaster stands to make his announcement.

* * *

  


Severus looks out over the students gathered in the Hall. No one is paying him any attention, and he couldn't be more grateful. Pity that won't last. 

Miss Granger is still very faintly nervous, he can feel it, but so much less so than before. The Draught was a stroke of genius. His nerves are also quite grateful. Pity that _too_ won't last. 

They'll get through this. He is sure. 

Reasonably sure. 

Well, if he isn't killed for it, that is. 

He's not particularly sure at all, now that he thinks about it. 

But it strikes him as odd that he's begun seeing it as a mutual challenge they will best. A great many things strike him as odd lately, and he thinks it generally boils down to a certain witch he can now see animatedly schooling Misses Dunbar and Smith on some topic to their great... pleasure. That draws a huff of amusement from him. Someone really should tell Miss Granger the vast majority of people don't consider life a classroom, and even if they did, wouldn't want her as a teacher in it. 

Allowing his eyes to drift back to the Slytherin table, he sees Draco has rejoined the snakes. Miss Granger doesn't seem to have noticed yet. He'll need to keep an eye on them. On consideration, he is now doubly thankful, both for having given her the Draught, and that Potter and Weasley have kept away. He's not certain her initial reactions to Draco won't prove too revealing, given what the boys have been told transpired. 

And then it strikes him that Draco isn't sporting a black eye. He had made good work of that Levicorpus, his condition Friday notwithstanding, and it is a tremendous disappointment not to see the results of it. It occurs to him that he hadn't asked Sunny to remove the Bruisewort Balm from the Slytherin dorms, and that will be the reason for it. Damn. Sunny really is excellent at following orders, the problem lies in formulating them robustly enough. 

Well, Severus hadn't been in good shape when he issued those instructions either. 

And the lack of a bruise will in no way have lessened the pain from its infliction. He finds it some consolation.  
  


He can just hear the sound of complaints wafting towards him from the Slytherins' table, and applies a Sensitivity Amplification Charm on his left ear to better monitor the situation covertly. That using it leaves him turned facing slightly more towards the Gryffindor table may be unintentional. But not as much so as he thinks. 

Ah. They seem inordinately upset over Peeves. He smirks. Not that Peeves has done anything specifically wrong, or at least not out of the usual, but it seems the Baron has been using the threat of him to manage the snakes and their impression is Peeves' behaviour has changed markedly today. One young lady, the daughter of a solicitor he notices, is suggesting it might be time to renegotiate the Poltergeist's contract. As if it were that simple. 

Nothing shy of an exorcism is likely to get him out of the castle, and such measures would undoubtedly cause quite a stir amongst the ghosts as well. It's a dangerous move, and the Headmistress had known what she was doing when she gave the bothersome spirit his contract nearly a century and a quarter ago. They had gotten off lightly. It helps greatly, of course, that Peeves has no awareness of this. 

His thoughts are interrupted as Pomona takes her seat and Albus stands. It's time. Severus ends the Amplification Charm; there's no chance that will be safe to use for the rest of the meal. Possibly not for days to come. 

And even if it were _safe_ , it will undoubtedly be _undesirable_. 

As most students don't seem to have noticed their Headmaster standing, Filius helpfully squeaks up with a soft "Attention please!" That seems to do the trick.

Or maybe it's Albus' _much_ louder, "Thank you, Filius," that draws everyone's attention. The room falls quiet. That probably won't last long. 

Severus looks over to the Gryffindor table to find Miss Granger's eyes on him again. Now that everyone's attention is directed elsewhere, she has no qualms about smiling at him more noticeably before turning away, and he begins Occluding for what he's worth.  
  


This should be ugly. And loud.

* * *

  


Albus wittered on, which is probably neither a fair nor accurate representation of what occurred, but it's how Severus remembers it. A speech was held, momentous occasion, happy tidings, so on and so forth. Nothing crucial was relayed, no context was given. The attack Friday wasn't mentioned at all, at least not to the student body as a whole; clearly staff and the bonded couples all know one had occurred, even if not all parties are aware Miss Granger was the victim, and most have no idea as to the true nature of it. 

And then Albus began to introduce the... happy couples. For fuck's sake. He actually used that expression. Severus adds it to the running list of things to Avada him for. 

"May I present, Madam and Mister Smith." A moment later, Salome previously Perks and Zacharias Smith stand. They're greeted initially by a surprised silence. The vast majority of the students never even having encountered a bonded couple, it's all something of a shock. It will soon prove much more so, Severus is certain. 

Albus is typically unfazed and undeterred. 

"Madam and Mister Devi." Another few moments, and Kiera no-longer-known-as Kilkenny and Dhanesh Devi stand. By now the students have adjusted to the news marginally, and the Gryffindors are a more rambunctious lot than the Hufflepuffs by far, and soon cheering and good natured laughter ensues. The Puffs seem to catch up and shortly both tables are congratulating the couples still standing in their midst. 

The Ravenclaws begin to look amongst themselves, assuming their table is next. Won't they be surprised?

And Albus continues. 

"Madam and Master Snape."

A hush falls over the room as everyone looks eagerly up and down the Head Table to see who will stand. Seamus can't refrain from joking, "Who would be barmy enough?"

A fifth year corrects, "Batty enough," as the sixth year next to Lav suggests, "Trelawney?" and nods towards the Seer who has made a most unusual appearance in the Great Hall. 

Neville, his eyes incredibly wide just at the thought of someone bonded to Snape, murmurs, "Brave enough, more like."

Another fifth year's, "Can't be Trelawney then," is just audible as Dean laughs, "So it'd have to be a Gryffindor," pleased at his wit. 

A sixth year next to Dhanesh hisses, "Not McGonagall!" as Seamus answers, "Except none of us are dumb enough."  
  


And then Hermione and Severus stand and the room goes deathly quiet.  
  


Professor Dumbledore chirps on, Hermione thinks as she stands there, her head held high, her eyes focussed on the stone of the far wall, surprisingly calm all considered, but she doesn't hear a word the wizard says. Neither does anyone else, as shortly thereafter that becomes completely impossible as the volume in the room reaches a roar. And it doesn't stop.

* * *

  


Severus stands, no outward sign manifest that this is of any significance whatsoever, staring unflinchingly straight ahead. He takes the chaos, the cacophony for a few seconds before realising Albus doesn't intend to fix this.  
  


He wonders why he's surprised.

  



	51. 11 10n Monday - A Voice in the Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Severus, Hermione, Albus, Misc. Students_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is short. But I _liked_ this bit, and _didn't_ like it paired to what came next, which harshed my mellow. Turns out I have the power to do something about that, split it up differently, and there we go. Cheers.

When Severus was a teen, he'd had a bit of a crush on Gaye Advert. Who didn't? Her wild hair and panda eyes, the way her small hands gripped her bass... Mmm. It hadn't mattered she was a Squib or even a distant cousin to Black; he preferred to think of that as 'Regulus' and not 'Sirius' at any rate. 'Safety in Numbers' had spoken to something in him _directly_ at the time. Of course it did.

He can recall one of the lads down the way in Cokeworth showing him bootleg photographs from the Adverts' Peel Session. There they were in studio, the walls waffled with foam. It looked absurd, but it helped the acoustics, his mate had said. He hasn't forgotten  
  


It just so happens Severus has spent a non-trivial portion of the day thinking over how pleasant it might be to silence students en masse, and just how one might go about it. It also seems the desire he'd felt to do so before isn't _anything_ like what he feels now.  
  


Without further hesitation, Albus had his chance, Severus lifts his wand and casts the same spell a total of five times, simultaneously, once on the continuous stone surface of the walls and floors, once each on the wood of the four House tables. And with that he changes the properties of their surfaces. Thoroughly. 

He doesn't dare risk altering the heavily magicked glass of the ceiling over all of their heads on the fly, not with something untried, although at the moment he's sorely tempted. Probably in part because he'd happily watch glass rain down on almost the lot of them; he's confident he could shield the exceptions, they're precious few. But his magic takes and the rest of the surfaces he's now Charmed so that they swallow sound like a sponge might water. Just like the Muggle recording studio he remembers from his youth, this alters the acoustics of the Hall radically. 

The near complete silence is immediate. 

He casts two more spells, Sonorouses, the second to gift Albus what he hopes will be the ability to speak. If not, he'll wait until the students seem resigned to their fates, shut their gobs, and then lift his Transfiguration work. Regretfully.

For something off the cuff, this has worked remarkably well. It's good to be recovered. Only a few glasses pitch over, unstable on the modified table surfaces. Tolerable losses. With a bit of experimentation, that would be quite the spell. He smirks as he watches Zabini try to daub the pumpkin juice from his robes. That's what Cleaning Charms are for. Nit. 

As spoilt as the boy is, he might not know them, though. In _his_ circles, that's what _house elves_ are for. 

Deciding to take advantage of the existing camouflage, or maybe against wasting an opportunity, no matter how small, he flicks a finger in the direction of the Slytherin table, and a pitcher of juice, inexplicably much colder than usual, pours onto Crabbe's lap. The sight of the boy leaping back from the table speaks to Severus' inner child. 

There is pleasure to be had in pettiness.

* * *

  


Hermione feels a now somewhat familiar warmth spread through her body. A tingle of magic at her neck, and she's pretty sure she knows whose. She wasn't speaking, she'd had nothing she wished to say and no one to say it to when the news was announced, but she'd seen what happened to the others. How their mouths move, but no sound can be heard. She observes as a few tumblers fall, and they too make no sound as they do so. 

But that strange sensation in her larynx makes her curious. She can't resist and tries clearing her throat, and is almost as surprised as those around her to discover that _she_ apparently can still be heard. And just like that, she remembers what he'd said to her Friday as he'd held her in his arms and carried her to the Infirmary. 

How he had told her he didn't want to take away her voice without her permission.  
  


The circumstances are different, _completely_ different, but she feels certain that's why he did this. At the very least, it's the difference between verbal and nonverbal magic. He's keeping her safe, giving her the ability to defend herself if she needs or wants to. Her left hand closes around the phial hanging on its chain around her neck, and her thumb works its way to her ring unerringly. The feeling of gratitude that wells up in her is immense, it _must_ be to be felt at all with the Draught in her system. 

The look she gives him where he still stands at the Head Table is free of all self-consciousness, as though they were the only two in the room, and not virtual strangers but life long friends. Unexpectedly, he finds himself meeting and holding her gaze, and he doesn't release it until Albus speaks again.

* * *

  


"Thank you, Severus," Albus says, testing the effectiveness of his own Sonorous. Turning to him magnanimously, he adds, "Most creative." Severus merely nods, dispassionately. "Now," Albus addresses the room, "that will be quite enough of that. Have you collected yourselves sufficiently?" 

It's unclear what response he's seeking, as virtually no one can be heard, but he waits a few moments dramatically, then gives Severus a sign and the Potions Master ends the spell and Miss Granger's Sonorous. Albus knows full well that he's audible thanks to the Charm. He can lift it himself when he's ready. 

For a brief moment, the room is still.

The moment is _very_ brief. 

The rumble begins as a faint buzz that quickly increases in volume until again it's almost a roar. This time the Headmaster, his Sonorous still very much in effect, no longer hesitates to shout, " _ENOUGH_!" 

_That_ seems to do the trick a little longer. "Return to your seats and be _silent_." No sooner commanded than done, the students retake their seats almost as one. Albus is able to do away with the Sonorous once the room quiets and informs them there will be substantial point deductions if they cannot behave themselves. 

"And if that still doesn't prove enough to encourage behaviour becoming of the ladies and gentlemen I presume you to be, then we shall continue the meal in silence. You have one more chance. _Do not squander it_." That threat seems to work, and the volume remains at tolerable levels.  
  


Severus remains standing, a model of impassivity, only retaking his seat when Albus does as well.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realise it's a bit hard to pick out when I'm being far-too-clever-for-my-own-good with canon, making stuff up out of thin air or actually weaving in pieces of the real world. Soooo, just this once ;-), lemme say that Gaye Advert was the stage name of Gaye Black, the bassist for the Adverts (a punk band from the 70s), who inspired a hell of a lot of women in the scene who came after. 
> 
> They had one commercial breakout success 'Gary Gilmore's Eyes' which I liked. If you're not adverse to the Clash or the Sex Pistols, and aren't familiar with the Adverts, that's the song I'd recommend. ('Safety in Numbers' isn't one of my particular faves from the era, but I thought Severus might have liked it.)
> 
> https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=cqx18CHDxbI 'Gary Gilmore's Eyes'


	52. 11 10o Monday - The Response

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hermione, Ginny, Albus, Misc. Students_

Ginny enters the Hall just as the initial roar is stifled, and finds herself unable to ask anyone what's going on. It's a surreal experience, which is saying something coming from the standpoint of a witch raised in a household that uses magic for virtually anything and everything, and that was home to her brothers Fred and George. Whatever the spell is, it's not like a Silencing Charm; she can't even hear the sound of her footsteps. 

She makes her way through the eerie quiet to their House table. There's a space next to Hermione, but after the fight she just had with Ron and Harry, she isn't particularly eager to sit next to her. She can't help herself. She clambers into the seat across from Neville instead.  
  


Hermione doesn't miss that Ginny had noted, and _rejected_ , the seat beside her. Compared to the other things she's pretending leave her unaffected, being avoided is hardly worth mentioning. And the Draught helps, naturally. _Greatly_ , in fact. She calmly keeps her gaze fixed to the far wall, ostensibly ignoring those around her as the silence ends, the invective and shouted questions resume, Professor Dumbledore bellows and they all sheepishly retake their places.  
  


"What happened?" Ginny asks, as soon as the Headmaster's seated and she's able to be heard, trying to make sense of the things being murmured around her. 

"Hermione married _Snape_ ," Seamus supplies in a loud whisper. 

" _Professor_ Snape," Hermione absently, automatically, and very quietly corrects. Fortunately no one is listening as it wouldn't have helped matters any. A larger gap has formed around her as everyone slides further away, almost as though her apparent madness could be contagious. 

"I'm sorry, _what_?" Ginny is fairly sure she heard that wrong. 

"And Kiera and Dhanesh got married too," Dean fills his ex in, still in shock and just feeling grateful that it wasn't _Ginny and Harry_. That would have _really_ done his head in, he thinks, forgetting for the moment that she isn't even of age, or perhaps unaware of the laws as he's Muggle-raised. But the distinction isn't immediately obvious, as the... _Devis_ are both sixth years like Ginny. 

That the bondings were all between _Muggle-born witches_ and wizards who _aren't_ escapes Dean. If asked, the vast majority of the students would take Snape for a pure-blood, and Dean's no different. But he has no reason to attach any significance to the partners' blood statuses; he'd probably take it for coincidence had he noticed. Not having been told of an attack in the school, as things stand, they are utterly lacking any frame of reference for this course of action. They haven't the shimmer of an idea as to _why_ it's happened. 

"Bonded," Neville corrects, hissing from further down the table to Hermione's left, better able to understand the difference as the only pure-blood amongst the three boys. 

"Wait, you did _what_?" Ginny asks Hermione, leaning forward and raising her voice to make herself heard past Georgina and Fay who haven't stopped muttering together since they regained the ability to do so. 

"Shh!" Dean, Neville and Georgina admonish her all at once. 

Ginny jumps up and slips into the seat she'd only just shunned next to Hermione. 

Strangely, Hermione seems just pleased as Punch that she's now deigned to do so.  
  


Ginny doesn't notice the cool reception, but then she now has a lot on her mind. First, this is _mental_. _Absolutely_ mental. It takes her a moment to move past that. 

It's really, unbelievably, truly, totally... _mental_.

Just... 

Well... mental.  
  


Second, there is no chance whatsoever Hermione and Harry will ever become an item, and she feels a little guilty _that_ crossed her mind, but mostly relieved. Well, unless Snape pops his clogs that is, and then she feels a little guilty for that, too, but not nearly as much. And everyone's teasing about Hermione snatching Harry away from her should stop, which would be welcome. The teasing about Gwenog Jones was so ridiculous as to be easily ignored anyway. 

So this must have been what the boys were keeping from her. Well, she's now good and angry they hadn't told her. And _then_ they made her miss the Headmaster's speech. (She may be misremembering that.) She'll have to ask Lav or Luna for details later. 

Mum's going to go spare when she hears this. Ginny will naturally owl her at first chance. 

Then it dawns on her that _this_ must be the prophecy Lav was on about, and when is Trelawney ever _right_? Well, except for that one time. Or that other time. But still. Which means Ron's... Oh, bugger. And she'd done rather a number on him, too. Bloody hell.

Well that's what he gets for keeping things from her. 

Right now she needs to see what she can get out of Hermione. Merlin, what was she _thinking_?  
  


Ginny starts peppering her with questions. As she does, the others draw closer, almost as though Accioed, voyeuristic ghouls, hoping to hear the story first hand. But Hermione isn't answering. 

"Oi, you lot," Ginny tells the table in no uncertain - but carefully modulated - terms, not eager to lose House points by being too loud, "mind your p's and q's," thinking it might make Hermione more willing to speak. 

The others withdraw again, fairly confident they'll come to hear the story later anyway. Experience shows they're right, Weasleys are hardly known as close-mouthed. Still, one of the fifth years thinks he might have a set of Extendable Ears in one of his pockets, and encouraged by his classmates begins a thorough but ultimately fruitless search. He'll find them tonight in his trunk, where they're doing him no good whatsoever.  
  


None of it makes any difference. Hermione spent the weekend in the Infirmary, and not _one_ of these people had visited her. She doesn't feel the _need_ to tell them a _thing_. They don't _care_ about her. They aren't her _friends_. They're just people she knows, and she doesn't need _their understanding_. Chances are, she wouldn't receive it no matter _what_ they're told. 

And they're only interested in her now because the story promises to be... scandalous. Possibly _salacious_. They're nothing but gawkers. _Vultures_.  
  


It doesn't help, of course, that the Oath makes much of what she'd probably want or need to say impossible. Certainly the first several questions Ginny asks can't be answered as a result. The next few that _could_ be answered, well, _those_ answers would make little sense without the information Hermione can't provide. The boys at least had understood there had been an assailment, some sort of skirmish. In the absence of that piece of background... Hermione saves herself the bother of even _trying_ to explain.

Ginny gets frustrated. It feels too much like the conversations, the _arguments_ , she'd just had with Ron and Harry. That's hardly a coincidence, as the underlying reason is the same, not that she realises it.  
  


Hermione's patience is also being sorely tried. She doesn't find Ginny's questions particularly original. She fails to consider any of a number of things as she just sits there, deflecting, becoming increasingly annoyed. First and foremost that _that_ is a sign the Draught is wearing off. 

But there are plenty of other aspects. Say, that some of the annoyance is definitely personal, she's grown... weary of Ginny's reticence, at least towards _her_ , in the past months. Or that _originality_ is hardly the point, this isn't an interview for the 'Quibbler'. Or that the _obvious_ questions remain the _same_ , by _definition_. Or that this is the _fourth_ time she's fielded questions on her bonding, and it is in the nature of such things that they become more tedious with repetition, particularly in such a short span of time. 

Or most importantly, to think about _who_ had asked those questions. Madam Pomfrey, Professor McGonagall, Harry and Ron, and now Ginny. That the order was in _inverse_ proportion to how much the people interrogating her, that's how Hermione now sees it, knew of the incident that led to the bonding doesn't cross the young woman's mind at all. That their increasing lack of knowledge about events practically serves to the same degree as a _guarantee_ that she _can't_ be understood...  
  


But Hermione can be forgiven for overlooking all of that; she, too, has rather a lot on her mind.  
  


It only makes matters worse, naturally, that Ginny's unoriginal questions are interspersed with frankly insulting assertions. They only aggravate the situation. Hermione's stand out favourite is, "If you were thinking _rationally_ , you wouldn't have done this." It's not _quite_ as bad as suggesting the Professor had _drugged_ her to achieve that irrationality, so Ron's still winning that particular competition. 

Hermione may be keeping track.  
  


Then there are the questions she can and _does_ answer, where her answers don't seem to be credited with _belief_. That just frustrates the both of them even more, and makes Hermione disinclined to answer further. _And_ begin to itemise creative hexes she could use on Ginny. It's a perfectly respectable mental exercise. She feels justified. 

_No, she_ hasn't _been having a clandestine affair with Snape,_ Professor Snape _, thank you very much..._

Ginny's unwilling to believe it _in the least_ , not in the face of a _bonding_ , for Merlin's sake, and some contention ensues. That is until she happens to notice Hermione's ring.

Like a bird of prey, she swoops down and grabs Hermione's hand, pinning her fingers so as better to examine her ring and... laughs. She actually laughs. " _That's_ your ring?!" She half shrieks, and is immediately rebuked from several sides for being too loud. 

Hermione finds the question stupid. And probably rude. It's unclear which is the deadlier sin. Fortunately, she's still not too fussed, although she's beginning to wonder for how much longer. Better late than never. She probably should have set a Tempus.

"That's your ring?" Ginny tries again in a softer voice. It doesn't really improve the question. She studies Hermione's face for a moment before releasing her and then laughs again. "You have no idea, do you?" 

She turns to her right, reaches across the table and grabs Kiera's hand, apparently that's perfectly acceptable behaviour for Ginny, the dark-haired witch looks like she finds it about as off-putting as Hermione had. Kiera's hand firmly in her grasp, Ginny tugs and extends it towards Hermione. Sure enough, a truly gaudy, and honestly sort of ugly, clunky gold affair glitters on the young woman's hand. It has as much in common with the thread of metal on Hermione's finger as a peacock does with a crow. Hermione knows which _she_ prefers. 

Kiera wrests her hand free with an irritated look, turning her back to Ginny somewhat demonstratively, and resumes the conversation she was having with some of the other sixth years and Lavender. 

Hermione just shrugs at Ginny, "So?"

" _So_?!" It's too loud again, and again she's shushed by the others at the table. "So?" She repeats. "Ignoring the fact it's bloody sad, you _do_ see that don't you? Ignoring that..." Yes, Ginny's doing a _stunning_ job of ignoring that... "It doesn't mean anything _good_. Bondmates' rings reflect the relationship." 

She pauses considering, and then goes on, "So I guess you really _didn't_ have anything going on with... the dungeon bat." The disdain is clear in her voice and causes Hermione's hackles to rise in a subconscious urge to defend her bondmate. Fortunately, she holds her tongue. Nothing she could say would help. 

The seventh year just stares at Ginny instead and blinks. Finally Hermione collects herself enough to respond dryly, "How good of you to finally believe me."

Still lost in her thoughts, Ginny proceeds as if Hermione hadn't spoken, "Or if you did, you don't care about one another..." And now Hermione suspects it's a good thing, a _very_ good thing she has the Draught in her system. And then she wonders why she finds that so _offensive_ , _despite_ the potion and the fact she and the Professor clearly _don't_ care about one another. There wasn't even the pretence of it between them. She doesn't notice her hand closing on her necklace as she contemplates this. 

"Or the sex was rubbish..." Ginny continues her musings half to herself, but _that_ somehow gets Hermione's attention. Given some of the things she's thought about in the past few days, she would have blushed thoroughly at that without the Draught. It's proving quite useful. "But then _why_ would you _bond_ him?

"Seriously," Ginny's at a loss, "you don't realise the significance of the ring?" Apparently she doesn't, but Hermione adds it to her research list. That's what libraries are for. "I can't believe you would do something so _foolish_ if you don't even know the basics." And Hermione adds _that_ to the growing list of insulting statements. Ron's still clearly in the lead, though. 

Hermione may have said something, trying to get Ginny to stop her unhelpful and fairly cryptic comments about the damn ring, that serves to remind the younger witch about her brother. 

Time has done a strange thing the whole while Ginny speaks to her where it stretches _forever_ and _ever_ like a magical elastic and the moment goes _on_ and _on_ and stubbornly, sadistically, refuses to end... And then just as suddenly it snaps back and is gone, over, as though it had always been. 

It goes wrong, badly so. Today just seems to be the day for it. 

"Poor Ron," Ginny sighs, to be fair, thinking in part about some of the horrible things she'd said to him, what? Not even an hour ago? No wonder he was in such a foul mood. She won't have helped any. 

The problem, of course, is that for Hermione that's _far_ too close to what Harry had said, was it just this afternoon? And she's having difficulty, rather a lot of it, seeing _Ron_ as the pitiable victim in this. 

Something in her snaps like that elastic. 

"Why don't you go check on the boys?" She bites out, only just managing to make it sound polite enough, but the fact it's in line with Ginevra's own wishes makes it easier for her to overhear any undercurrent of anger or annoyance. With a few platitudes in parting, the redhead takes her leave to seek out her brother and Harry.

_And_ owl her mum.  
  


None of which was good, it definitely hadn't been enjoyable, but Hermione will soon have occasion to know what _real_ anger is.

* * *

  


As she speaks to the youngest Weasley, Albus examines Miss Granger covertly from the Head Table with some consternation. She _should_ be distraught. _Agitated_ at the least. He has no explanation for what he sees, she's a picture of tranquility... 

And then he has to laugh at himself. The young woman is bonded to an incredibly competent Potions Master. Her state was undoubtedly _easy_ to achieve. 

Blast. 

Well, he can't win them all.   
  


He had quite expected the circumstances of the announcement to trigger the Protection Vow, and most publicly at that. He's positive it wouldn't have been _pleasant_ for either of the parties, that was never in question, but then he's equally positive it won't be whenever it _does_ manifest, and it most assuredly _will_. 

This isn't about what's pleasant. He couldn't give a flying... Fudge about _pleasant_. This is a _safe_ environment, no harm would have come to either of them here. Well, beyond what happened Friday, he amends ruefully. But it would have taught them both how sensitive such a Vow is to the triggering conditions, an _extremely_ valuable lesson. And it would have afforded them _all_ with a very visible demonstration of that Vow in action. 

Whether either of them would _prefer_ it or not, having the Slytherin students here to witness it meant some could be counted on to report about it to their parents, and that should have provided Miss Granger and Severus with some corroboration for the story the Professor will be forced to tell. 

Albus had hoped that might serve to dissuade certain parties from... _testing_ it on their own. 

It can't be helped. He'll need to come up with a different plan.

  



	53. 11 10p Monday - Draco's Teasing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hermione, Severus, Draco, Luna, Dhanesh, Kiera, Lavender, Hafsa, Minerva, Misc. Students_

When Ginny leaves, Lavender pounces, siezing the opportunity, and directs a fair few questions Hermione's way. But having even less success than Ginny had in getting information from the brunette, astonishingly enough, Lavender soon throws in the towel and rejoins the others gathered softly chatting away around Kiera and Dhanesh. They're _far_ more interesting.  
  


Lavender naturally has no way of knowing that this realisation on her part coincides with a gentle kiss of magic that once again works its way warmly over Hermione's skin... It's wonderfully... _convenient_ what a weak Notice-Me-Not can do. Sort of a 'Notice-Me-Not-Very-Much', Hermione quips to herself with a grin. Unless someone is determined to seek her out, they're likely to forget about her entirely. That suits her _very_ much indeed just at the moment.

She sends another appreciative smile towards the Head Table, forgetting completely to be irritated for not thinking of it herself in her delight both with the solution and its... application. It's met by a faint nod before _he_ turns his attention back to the Slytherins' table. 

Truth be told, however, Hermione's Notice-Me-Not's are fairly binary, and wouldn't really solve this problem. Avoiding notice entirely would only postpone the inevitable. As things _now_ stand, when her Housemates leave this table, they'll be satisfied they've gotten the information they _could_ from her. They won't feel the need to address this again, at least not with her directly. _That_ should save her a great deal of aggravation in the days to come. There are reasons Severus has survived this long as a spy. 

The timing of that diversion naturally wasn't purely by chance. Just as Hermione began to realise that she was finding it more and more difficult to remain indifferent in the face of Lav's barrage of questions, that the potion had pretty much run its course, and it finally dawned on her that she hasn't got a good exit strategy, the Professor cast the spell and Lav shoved off. 

For one thing _he_ actually _did_ cast a Tempus and has kept a close eye on things, and for another, even if he hadn't, the bond is transmitting her emotions all too plainly. She can think he did it for her all she likes, he considered it... _expedient_. As usual, the truth lies somewhere in between.  
  


Far too late it occurs to her that she probably should have discussed with him in advance how best to extricate herself from the Hall. She isn't sure if they'll be expected... if _he_ would _wish_ to be seen returning to quarters with her. She should have asked. She honestly doesn't know if leaving together or separately is strategically better. But she's certain he _does_. 

She also isn't sure if leaving too early, whenever _that_ is, will attract more or less of the wrong kind of attention. Yet if she leaves it too long, the corridors will be full of Slytherins heading back to their dungeons, and she'd still rather like to avoid them... Well, not _him_ , of course...

She's having a hard time balancing the desire not to be a burden, well, _more of a burden_ , with the fact she effectively becomes _still more of one yet_ when things aren't properly sorted. Rats. This is actually harder than she expected, and she certainly hadn't expected it to be easy.  
  


Belatedly, and isn't that a sad commentary on his much vaunted skills, he's forced to acknowledge this would have gone far more smoothly if he'd simply spoken to her in advance and made appropriate arrangements. Pomona arrived late, postponing the announcement and throwing off his schedule, and it's rather buggered things up. Thoroughly. 

The potion will soon be worn off, and Miss Granger very much needs to be elsewhere but obviously hasn't the hint of a clue how best to go about that. Perfect. This was stupid and unnecessary. And what had he gotten for it in exchange, for not explaining to the young woman how they should manage this? A few precious minutes of solitude? Was that it? Or was it the dubious pleasure of leaving her twisting for those few moments longer earlier in their quarters? Splendid. And _who_ is twisting _with her_ now? None other than _himself_. 

He _absolutely_ deserves it. 

And she most likely does _not_. 

He won't make this mistake again. Probably. That _could_ depend on how well she follows the directions he'll give her or how irritating she proves in the process. But not taking her into his confidence, at least a little, clearly also has significant drawbacks. Marvellous. Just one more thing he needs to balance. It _really_ never ends. 

The look he gives his seventh year boys as he considers his situation is an exceedingly dark one.

* * *

  


Whether Hermione recognises it or not, the presence of the Devis just a few seats down also proves helpful. They are distracting people from her quite nicely. Between them and the potion... 

There's very little point in repeatedly asking Hermione questions she obviously isn't answering. Derogatory comments have no apparent effect. Being reduced to whispering them probably makes them less potent anyway, as far as anyone else is concerned. For all intents and purposes, Hermione seems largely unfazed by _everything_ , and her fellow Gryffindors are finding no purchase to burrow their way in. When even _Lavender_ admits defeat... The table's focus soon shifts to the other bonded couple represented amongst them.  
  


Dhanesh is a handsome young man of Indian descent, neither tall nor short, with a beautiful smile and mischievous eyes. He's frightfully rich and terribly roguish, and when Hermione considers him at all - which isn't often, their circles don't intersect - she thinks _that_ must be what Sirius had been like in his youth before everything went so awfully wrong. At least in some respects. She's blissfully unaware of some of Sirius' more problematic traits.

Kiera, of course, is simply gorgeous. She's the kind of girl who in the Muggle world would get discovered walking her dog at age fourteen and become an international modelling sensation. The wizarding world, to its credit, seems less shallow than that, and Hermione can't think of a single witch or wizard 'discovered' walking their Crup. Although that might just be because the creatures are unruly and challenging to walk, which frankly isn't conducive to looking all that decorative really, or because house elves frequently discharge such bothersome chores. 

Kiera is exceptionally tall, slightly more so than Dhanesh even, thin with just the right amount of curves, and pale with long, wavy black hair. She's also _far_ from stupid, without the onus of being _too_ bright. Perfect really. The kind of girl you'd almost want to hate on sight, except she's actually quite nice. Damn her eyes. 

If there were no Harry Potter, had there been no Harry and Ginny... Those two probably would have been Gryffindor's golden couple instead. And they're popular in their _own rights_ , not for the points they bring. Neither play Quidditch nor have graced the covers of the 'Prophet' or 'Quibbler'. Neither are stellar students. They're simply... well liked. It's a strange concept. 

Dhanesh is only a little better than an average student, or the average Gryffindor anyway. He's taking four N.E.W.T.s, which is all Harry or Ron would be taking, really, if Professor Slughorn hadn't effectively made an exception by allowing them in Potions last year. Kiera is a bit stronger academically than he is, managing five N.E.W.T.s classes. She's the only sixth year in Gryffindor who was able to advance to N.E.W.T.s Potions this year. Hermione may be biased in reducing her assessment of their skills to that one class, although it's probably not related to the fact the Professor is her bondmate, well, not greatly, but she's not wrong in her evaluation either. There may be something to it.  
  


It occurs to Hermione that people _like_ the two of them for _themselves_ and are obviously happy for them at the news of their bonding. She has a brief moment of... concern where she hopes this was actually _necessary_ , that the bonding was for _Kiera's_ safety and not done to provide cover for herself and the Professor. Looking at the Headmaster, she's really not sure. 

She can _absolutely_ picture him doing something like that at this point. Her view of him may have changed radically since he pressured her into taking the Oath that keeps her silent about Friday's assault. And that's despite not necessarily disagreeing with him; she simply takes exception to his methods. Greatly.  
  


Severus picks up on her wave of distrust and disapproval and in a mixture of annoyance and some trepidation, expecting the worst, turns his gaze to her again. It's _immensely_ satisfying when he realises she's glaring at the Headmaster. Really, _blazingly_ satisfying, in fact. She isn't subtle, no one can accuse her of that, but he finds himself not minding in the least as things stand. On the contrary, he has to bite back an unsubtle chuckle of his own in response.  
  


Hermione goes back to watching the other Gryffindors' interactions. She observes her Housemates with the faintest pang of envy, before deciding a little regretfully that she could hardly expect them to congratulate _her_ given the circumstances. 

Which of course is _precisely_ when Luna hops into the seat next to her and does just that. Bless her heart.  
  


In what will be the only positive gesture or words of the evening, at least in response to the news of _her_ bonding, Luna gives Hermione a fierce bear hug worthy of Hagrid and the warmest congratulations. Perversely, Hermione who'd only just felt a bit envious at _not_ having such a response _now_ feels it's misplaced. She can be hard to help sometimes, too. 

"You'll be so happy!" Luna assures her friend, her conviction matched by her verve. The cheery blonde's bubbling enthusiasm is catching, but Hermione can't help wishing, just a little, that the individual vouching for her future joy had a better track record distinguishing the _real_ from the _imaginary_ as she smiles in return. 

She patiently covers the same ground she'd just done with Ginny. There _isn't_ a relationship, there _hasn't_ been an affair. The response surprises Hermione after the reaction those same asseverations drew from Ginny, although she really should know the Ravenclaw better by now. _Luna_ believes _every word_ , and yet her zeal is undampened. 

Hermione pessimistically assumes she's been misunderstood and tries again, _they are not in_ any sense _a couple..._

"Well not _now_ , maybe," Luna answers sagely. "Anyway I don't think _being a couple_ is a requirement for _being happy_." 

That's... surprisingly hard to refute. Hermione eventually settles on, "Uh, thanks, Luna, that's... very kind."

* * *

  


There's a loud scream and a fifth year Gryffindor Hermione thinks is named Hafsa charges forward, yelling at her brother, Dhanesh, " _Why_ didn't you _invite_ me?"

"We didn't invite _anyone_ ," the sixth year tries to reason with her, his hands raised in what will emerge as a thoroughly useless gesture of placation. "And if I _had_ , what would we have told our parents? _Kiera's_ parents aren't even allowed on the castle grounds..." 

His sister doesn't seem to be convinced, not one iota, but they've drawn everyone's attention for the moment, particularly when Hafsa's shouting culminates in the girl hexing a yard long mouse's tail onto Dhanesh, crying something about the mouse who roared, in some twisted form of House pride no doubt, and Hermione's just grateful to be completely forgotten. Her peace doesn't last long.  
  


Professor McGonagall has stepped down from the Head Table, appearing unexpectedly behind them, although that's only because they're criminally careless as a House and not exactly thinking - defining characteristics of Gryffindors were Severus ever to name them. It _should have been_ easily predictable. Their Head seems particularly displeased with the Devis, Mister and _Miss_ that is, and beats the Headmaster to the draw by sternly deducting an impressive number of points for the shenanigans. Not even Severus can find fault with her penalty, although he's naturally inclined to try. 

"Professor Dumbledore was more than clear, young lady, and I'll not have everyone else suffer for _your_ lack of decorum. As much as it pains me, forty points, Miss Devi, for this utterly shameful display." Hafsa, if that's her name, really isn't the sharpest Diffindo, and tries to justify her actions. Sadly at a volume that still isn't anything like appropriate. 

"Make that _fifty_ points," the Transfigurations Mistress amends, her lips tightly drawn. "And if you're quite finished here, you may seek out Mr. Filch's company for the rest of the evening." Further demonstrating just how dull her Diffindo is, Hafsa then proceeds to try to explain she hasn't had her jelly yet. "That was rhetorical, Miss Devi. Go to him _now_." Muttering to herself, the raven-haired fifth year slumps out of the Hall. 

"Miss Lovegood," Professor McGonagall continues, suddenly noticing the Ravenclaw amidst her pride of lions, "if you would be so kind, perhaps you'd return to your table?" 

_Luna_ of course is clever enough to realise no answer to that question is sought beyond her vacating her seat, and she gives Hermione another quick hug before leaving. 

"Mr. Devi, shall we see to your... appendage?" The young man stands and turns so that the Professor can take a closer look. "It doesn't seem to be Transfigured from your trousers... Are you familiar with the Charm she used?" At his negative response, she sighs. "Very well, off to Madam Pomfrey with you. We'll have to see about solving this. I'll ask Professor Flitwick to stop by after his meal. Madam Devi, if you'd like to accompany him now, you are welcome to do so." 

Kiera readily agrees, and thanking their Head of House the two head off for the Infirmary. They haven't gone far when Kiera pauses to pull her bondmate's tail before dashing forward with it still well in hand. The force of her momentum spins Dhanesh around, much to the general amusement, and he has little choice but to run after her, answering her antics with laughter. They _do_ seem quite happy together, and when he catches her, he wraps his arms around his 'dark haired goddess' and they disappear from sight into the corridor as the Transfigurations Mistress smiles after them indulgently from the seat she's retaken at the Head Table.  
  


It's a peaceful note, a _cheerful_ note. And in the wrong key altogether for the evening's symphony. That's easily remedied. 

Within moments, Draco approaches.

* * *

  


Draco was well aware that Severus was watching him, rather like a hawk, and he had a pretty good idea _why_ , particularly after his bonding to the Gryffindor _Princess_ was announced. Merlin's hairy ballsack. There's no question in the young Slytherin's mind that the bonding was a punitive measure, and he believes there's every chance the man will be after his blood in response. He can't even blame him. 

A _bonding_. Fudge on a broomstick. No one is fool enough to _bond_ anymore. 

None of the Slytherins have the least doubt, it's highly improbable the dour Potions Master likes anyone _at all_ , and if he _should_ care for someone, it most certainly _wouldn't_ be the bushy-haired Gryffindor swot. The man is proper, correct to a fault. The idea he should have something, _anything_ going with a student is patently absurd. 

Although the other snakes won't have any idea what _led_ to this, not yet anyway, to a witch and wizard they are absolutely sure it's more of the Headmaster's fuckery. It's surprisingly accurate; the last six years have taught them well. That's a lesson that by comparison has gone unlearnt by members of a House that have certainly benefited from said fuckery often enough in the past. Perhaps _they're_ labouring under the delusion those benefits were... _earned_.  
  


It hasn't escaped Draco that the bonded witches, Granger, Perks, Kilkenny, were all Muggle-borns, and he has an all too clear idea of which Vows might have been part and parcel of the unions. It's the only explanation that makes any sense, that justifies resorting to a _bond_. He's spent enough time at the Manor in recent months to recognise such Vows might even be a wise precaution, and isn't _that_ a terrifying thought, that something so drastic, so reckless, so _foolish_ , could be... _wise_. 

'Fidelity' is practically a given. Which means he's singlehandedly essentially _guaranteed_ Severus will never get another leg over again. At least not with anyone he _wants_. No, when the man Avadas him, and it's only a question of time, he's sure, he'll know exactly _why_. He rather assumes he can look forward to some form of Potions induced impotency in the near future. Turnabout and all that. He can't blame him for _that_ either. 

He'll keep those thoughts very much to _himself_ , though. No need to encourage him. 

When he stops to consider the fact that Crabbe had administered that potion... That's not quite right though, is it? _Crabbe_ had _supplied_ it. Highly questionable, beyond any doubt, and seriously disturbing that he had brought it with him or suggested its use. But _Draco_ had administered it _himself_. _He_ should have _refused_. They can only thank Merlin that it was improperly brewed and that Severus had interrupted them when he did. Draco shouldn't like to imagine... 

He really can't explain what he was thinking. He refuses to even _try_ to think that thought to its logical conclusion. That's not... _him_. That's _never_ been _him_. They really were incredibly lucky the way it played out... But _given_ what they _had_ done, what they... what they _might have_ done... Perhaps there's more than one justification for what he feels sure is to come. 

And for _saving_ them from themselves, Severus now finds himself _bonded_. To a _student_. A _Gryffindor_. The swottiest one imaginable at that. And a _Muggle-born_. There are quarters where that will doubtlessly be well received. Merlin. Just thinking of it, Draco wonders that he hasn't been Avadaed already. It borders on a miracle. 

Theo was the only one of them with even a hint of sense. Or conscience, apparently. Draco will need to let Severus know. That's if he doesn't already... Considering that, it seems unlikely he wouldn't.  
  


Draco's been studiously keeping his attention directed towards the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff Quidditch players, as a thin pretext for what drew his attention. Certainly observing the _Gryffindor_ team would make a good deal more sense, as they have the next match coming up, but then three of their key team members are now absent, and it probably hits far too close to home to look at their table. 

He's too clever to look at the Head Table himself, not even via any convenient reflective surfaces, although it hadn't helped that the pitcher he'd used earlier relocated itself to Crabbe's lap, amusing though it may have been. 

No, actually, it was _definitely_ amusing, no 'may have' about it. It was the only laugh he's had in days. Possibly weeks.

He smirks, considering it. He thinks the pitcher tumbled over _just_ a moment too late for it to have been caused by whatever spell it was that hit the table and believes one of the others took advantage of the opportunity to stick it to Vincent. He understands the impulse _thoroughly_ and strongly suspects Blaise was behind it. Although _he_ had seemed rather busy drying his own robes... But on the other hand, Blaise hadn't appeared to appreciate Crabbe's laughter at his predicament at all. Whoever it was was fast. And subtle. He's pretty sure Goyle didn't do it, if only because he's neither; Harper and Theo are both strong possibilities. 

Theo's a good egg, all in all. He's been monitoring their Head of House covertly for Draco, waiting for a moment Professor Snape's distracted. When McGonagall moves, Severus briefly shifts his attention to follow her, Theo gives him a signal, and Draco disappears from sight.  
  


His Notice-Me-Not is nearly as good as the one Severus had used to get Miss Granger to the Great Hall for much the same reason; Draco's intent is _very_ strong. What he is doing is incredibly dangerous, quite probably stupid, and he has no desire whatsoever to be caught. That's not precisely accurate, he's demonstrating increasingly self-destructive tendencies of late, but the acceptable parameters, the _sensible_ parameters, for being caught are ridiculously narrow.  
  


Draco is _positive_ , dead certain, that Potty and Weasel had thrown him down what amounted to a seven story drop last night. No doubt in revenge for the Slytherins' attack on Granger. Depending on how much they know of the details, he almost can't blame them. _Almost_. But his understanding doesn't extend to seven stories. One or two, he could probably have understood. _Countenanced_ even. Not _seven_. 

He can recognise a W3 product when he's forced to clean it up, and that had _definitely_ been a Weasleys' Wheeze that went off, ' _boom_ ', shortly before he inadvertently... _fell_. It had all the typical hallmarks. 

He was exhausted when they struck. He'd spent the whole of two days straight manually cleaning with a migraine to end all migraines, and as hard as he tried, he hadn't been able to get a Cushioning Charm up in time. He literally couldn't cast to save his life. He's not even sure that Cushioning would have been safe from that height. Had Severus not been there to catch him, he has no illusions, he'd be _dead_. Once again. Well not _dead again_ , obviously, but once again, he could have _died_. Thanks to _Potter_. 

_That's_ becoming a _thing_. 

There are limits to what he can take. And more importantly, what he is expected to be _willing_ to tolerate, certainly from the likes of _them_. He's honest enough to admit it, to himself anyway, _part_ of him, the part that isn't thoroughly beaten by the demands of the past year and a half, not that it's a large part by this stage, but still... _That_ part of him _wants_ revenge. 

But he's extremely proficient at Wizards' Chess, and there's a chess term that applies _perfectly_ to his situation: 'Zugzwang'. He is forced to move whether he wants to or not, and at the moment that's almost definitely to his own detriment. With the announcement of Severus' bonding, by morning certain people, all the _wrong_ people, will know _far_ too much. Explanations will be demanded and in due course they _must_ be given. No one that matters will take his fall last night for an accident. Not under these conditions. 

If he doesn't at least _try_ to take revenge, and very soon, his life won't be worth a plugged sickle. He shouldn't like to have to explain to certain individuals how he hadn't even _bothered_ trying to avenge himself. His hand drifts to the Dark Mark on his arm just at the thought. He'll be better off, _far_ better off, trying and _failing_ , _no matter_ the cost of failure, than _not trying_ at all.

That's something he learnt from last summer's experience with Nymphadora. It taught him the _appearance_ of action buys him leniency. He's already seen as too slow to act because of his failures murdering Dumbledore. Not that anyone expects him to _succeed_ there. He's probably just supposed to fail _faster_. 

A very visible failure now is probably his best option here. Success _couldn't_ be visible, or he wouldn't have actually _succeeded_. No, failure is probably... safer.  
  


He'd have vastly preferred to advance on Potty or Weasel. Or even the Weaselette. _That_ should have struck home just as effectively, all considered. And any of them would have been doubly expedient targets in light of the upcoming Slytherin-Gryffindor match. But _he'd_ spent his day in the Infirmary with a Mediwitch who seemed curiously intent on torturing him. This is the first he's seeing _any_ of them, the boys hadn't even bothered appearing, the Weaselette had gone, Granger's the only one left, and his Tempus is fading. He's under no delusions, when the meal is done, owls will be dispatched; he _needs_ them to contain mention of an attempt on his part to even the score. 

He has a brief twinge of something that might even be guilt at approaching Granger. He half wonders if Severus Obliviated her, as calm as she seems. Friday had certainly demonstrated she can't Occlude in the least. But he has a decided dearth of options and it probably doesn't matter all that much; he doesn't expect to get very far. 

He's just unsure if the bigger threat now comes from the Gryffindor ranks, the Headmaster or his own Head of House. With a deep breath, he prepares to dig his own grave with his own two pampered hands, no Gouging Spell required.  
  


Merlin's left nut. 

Still, that twinge _may_ be what stays his wand and unleashes his tongue. In his world, that's preferable. She would probably disagree, but they haven't remotely the same experiences.

* * *

  


Sliding up to the witch at the centre of the weekend's events, he casts another Notice-Me-Not to shield them both from her Housemates' attention.

"My my, _Madam Snape_. How quickly things change," he sing songs low so that no one else at her table overhears. She's palmed her wand before he could speak. 

"Did you enjoy your weekend with Mr. Filch?" She keeps her voice low, too, trying to pretend she's unaffected by his presence. She wouldn't fool anyone who would care to notice. On the other hand, almost no one cares to watch their exchange, and those that do _cannot_. 

"Is this how Mudbloods say 'thank you'? Spreading their thighs?"

"I'm sure you'll never have occasion to know, one way or the other. Now bugger off, Malfoy." Her tone still manages to sound artificially sweet. She considers it a real accomplishment. 

"I do hope you managed to find some more appealing lingerie. I'm not sure how _you_ people do these things, but Uncle _Severus_ deserves better for his wedding night than what you had on display the other day." 

"I had nothing on _display_ , Malfoy. Some worthless arsewipes _stole_ a look, quite _without_ my permission." 

"Mmh. And I'll never forget the sight."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that," she hisses back, her fingers twitching. After what she'd done to her parents, this... _this_ would be a doddle.

"I guess Uncle's just lucky no other snake slithered in first." She had been bristling, no question, trying to maintain an appearance of calm was working her very last nerve. But the sheer unmitigated gall of that statement has her beyond reason, she's just seeing red. 

The wand preemptively clutched in her hand when he approached begins to shoot up, but is arrested halfway to his throat as a deep voice booms out across the Hall, no Sonorous needed, "Malfoy, come see me after dinner." Draco has the good sense to return to his table, all too aware this won't end well for him. He had sort of hoped to avoid _Severus'_ notice in the crowd of the Hall. It's a fatal error.

* * *

  


Severus had looked up briefly, ever so briefly, to see what Minerva was doing with the Gryffindors, concerned she would inadvertently draw attention to Miss Granger again. His moment of inattention was _very_ short. He'd checked first, naturally, and Draco wasn't even looking his - or _her_ \- way. But in those mere moments he was distracted, Draco disappeared. Severus had immediately started scanning the Hall from his seat and listening very intently to the bond. 

The ripple around Miss Granger vanishing her from sight coincided with the harsh spike of tension he could feel through their bond, and he knew, with _absolute_ certainty, where Draco now was. In a first truly spectacular display of _just_ how well the bond can convey emotion, Severus found his dinner decisively interrupted as his godson accosted... his _wife_. For fuck's sake. _That_ will take getting used to. 

_Nothing_ he has felt through the bond before compares. This eclipses it all. Where before there may have been room for interpretation, uncertainty or imprecision, the feelings he can now perceive are _crystal_ clear. Overwhelming, but... _not_. Not at all. And not like they had been this morning or yesterday when they almost drove him to his knees. This doesn't leave him incapacitated as it had before, quite the contrary, he feels... invigorated, with a pressing desire to... act. And the decidedly unimpeded _ability_ to do so. In fact, given magic truly is all about intent, there's a very good chance this leaves him even better equipped to defend... _their_ interests. 

In the back of his mind he considers if this is the precursor to the Geas. He's been wondering how the fuck he was supposed to respond effectively under the laming onslaught of her emotions, and it had seemed an even more certain death sentence than he'd previously taken a Protection Vow for in the present environment. This leaves him with some hope _that_ might not be the case after all.  
  


He's correct that this is an indication of how the bond will not only _not_ inhibit his ability to function, but will _aid_ him in doing so. He is wrong in his assessment of his drive to take action, however. This has nothing whatsoever to do with the Protection Vow. It may have more than a little to do with how he thinks bondmates _should_ behave. Subconsciously, of course. But if he had been spurred to act Friday simply at the _sight_ of the young woman in distress, certainly the ability to _feel_ her discomfort will prove a great deal more motivating. It definitely speaks for him if he finds that... 'pressing'. Quite a bit. 

He's also been lying to himself, and by extension Miss Granger about his motives for acting Friday evening. He rarely deceives himself about such things; it's far too dangerous. In his defence, he hasn't had much time for reflection since, and he was in poor shape yesterday. But for once, he's actually better off believing his own deception. 

The relevant parties know well enough, or suspect, how he feels about sexual assault. _That_ actually helps justify his actions. But when he had chosen to come to her aid, chosen _her_ well being over that of _his charges_ , he hadn't the faintest idea she'd been given the Liquid Lust. The image of her there in that chair had caused a visceral response, but _that_ response set in a good deal earlier, with far less provocation than he believes. And it _had_ made a difference that it was her. How much of a difference is entirely unclear.  
  


He quickly casts the counterspells, paying close attention to the bond all the while, and in no time he's broken Draco's Notice-Me-Not and sees what's transpiring. Lightning quick, he casts spells, a stronger, but still imperfect Notice-Me-Not on his bondmate, strengthening the weaker one he'd cast before, and then overriding his personal preferences and bowing, regretfully, to his better judgment, he extends it around Draco. It will ensure they both remain visible to him, as he is _exceptionally_... determined. 

But the boy was correct that the Charm would be needed, Severus is grimly forced to agree. And not just to keep him safe from his Head of House, not that _that_ seems to have worked. He would probably have real issues surrounded by the lions as he is without it. In which case Severus' Unbreakable Vow to aid Draco might come into play, or perhaps the Geas protecting Miss Granger where she sits in front of the blond. Severus isn't at all sure it would be remotely safe for the witch in the crossfire. Fucking hell. This _will_ be complicated to navigate moving forward.  
  


While he has no idea what was actually said between the two of them, _those_ feelings of hers and their _expressions_ would certainly be enough to provide more than a hint. 

Draco's face glowed with the most malevolent grin imaginable, and Miss Granger's had clouded quite darkly. _Despite_ the vestiges of the Draught. Still, he was surprised by the force of the anger and humiliation, with more than a hint of fear, that he felt roll over him through their bond. That it coincided with her raising of her wand, however, surprised him not the least. Had she hexed the rotter, here in front of a hall full of people, _she'd_ doubtlessly be the one facing punishment. That's not on, for a number of reasons. 

Amongst others, he means to keep the anxiety she transmits to a minimum, of course. And he's tired of the little toerag thinking he can just swan about like he owns the place. Doing as he pleases... Severus had been very clear what would happen if he saw Draco being disrespectful again. Well, apparently the boy had issues with his hearing as well as his higher cognitive functions. Not that the concussion from his Levicorpus assault will have helped... 

And here Severus had thought no one would dare hassle his wife... 

Best clear up any confusion _soon_. And send an _unmistakable_ message. 

He watches the boy return to his table. It's simply theatre. There was never any question of Draco not slinking off. He lifts the Charm from the boy once he retakes his seat. 

Having sent Draco packing, his eyes linger for a moment on the young woman at the root of... _everything_. She hasn't stopped looking at him since he called out, she's eager to express her appreciation. Their eyes meet briefly, then she gives him a slight smile, trying hard not to be _too_ blatant, and mouths "Thank you, Sir." It's completely unnecessary, because he can feel her gratitude now across their bond very clearly, but she's probably not as aware of that given how much he Occludes. 

He folds his right hand over his left, noting that her eyes track his movement, and then very inconspicuously, casually allows his hand to slide back to his wrist, extends his long index finger, and in a gesture the vast majority in the Hall wouldn't begin to understand taps his wrist twice before shooting the doors a significant glance. That should be lost upon all but the Muggle-born or -raised. Coincidentally, there are none of those in Slytherin and nary a wristwatch either. Only then does he look back at her. 

She knows he'll be occupied after the meal. _Everyone in the Hall_ knows he'll be occupied after the meal. It is now both less difficult to justify that she's leaving without him, and even more important that she do so before anyone who might be tempted to cause... trouble leaves as well. She nods her understanding and smiles at him again. 

It's gone beyond a smile, really, back to that beaming thing she sometimes does. Generally at her cat. They'll probably need to work on that, but under the Notice-Me-Not, he's very likely the only one to see it. She means well, and in the absence of risk, he decides to simply... appreciate it. It's _incredibly_ odd to be sitting there in the Great Hall in front of the entire school with his... wife smiling at him like... that. As if being bonded weren't odd enough. 

He gives her a slight nod and returns to his meal as though nothing had happened, carefully watching the reflection of her leaving on the saucière to his left through his curtain of hair. A Charm of his own devising renders the image flat to his sight and her much easier to observe. It's particularly useful as the lower concave curve of the sauce boat otherwise turns the reflection upside down.

He's relieved to see no one follows her from the Hall. Naturally only because it simplifies things. Why else?  
  


The meal proceeds without other incident of note, and when Draco reports to him afterwards, he grabs the boy by the scruff of the neck and escorts him from the room. Beyond the requisite Slytherins, no one but Minerva and Albus take particular notice, neither of them inclined to interfere. But Minerva might have done, had she known their destination was once again her classroom.

  



	54. 11 10q Monday - Draco's Sorting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Severus and Hermione, Draco, Sunny_

Severus is in a curious mood. It's not entirely wretched, actually. That's nothing shy of a wonder considering the events of the past three days, which _had_ been wretched, or at least those bits he'd been conscious for. He's divided whether the torture Friday at the Manor or bonding a student was worse. The coma, it should go without saying, was preferable to either. 

He's being flippant, naturally. The bonding is atrocious, absolutely _abominable_ , because it's _permanent_. Theoretically further reaching. Unless he were to die some time soon that is. The torture _had_ been quite painful after all. Idly, and more than a little perversely, he wonders _how soon_ he would need to die for the bond _not_ to be worse. Unless it were the reason for his death, he supposes... 

Tricky. A diverting bit of mental gymnastics. Just the sort of thing that helps keep him sane. 

Relatively. 

On the other hand, given the people he's comparing himself to, that's probably not saying all that much. The Dark Lord, Greyback, Bellatrix... Thankfully no contest there. But it's becoming less and less clear how sane _Albus_ even still is, particularly when one considers the old goat's insistence on the aforementioned bonding. 

And what does it say about _Severus_ to have agreed to it?

For starters, probably that he shouldn't make such sweeping decisions from his sick bed... Hmm.  
  


Nevertheless, his mood is improving by the moment. It's reasonably good, in fact, not that anyone could tell. Not in the least. No, he's in his element. His appearance is rather convincingly terrifying as he storms down the corridors, robes billowing, dragging, pushing, pulling and otherwise roughly manhandling Draco along with him to the Transfigurations classroom, the scene of the boy's crime. One of them anyway.

Severus is going to _enjoy_ this. 

Just as well, really. He could use a little more joy in his life.  
  


Now that Severus is out of the Hall, away from all those screaming minds and voices, he has to acknowledge it: it had probably gone better than he could have hoped, all considered. Realistically the mutters of 'paedo' were only to be expected. They'll undoubtably become louder in the days to come and were hardly a surprise under the circumstances. 

He'd like to be able to say it left him cold, but it hadn't quite. Best get used to it. Those very same people will be decrying him as a murderer soon enough. He's been steeling himself against _that_ for months now, which may have helped him tonight. Small mercies.

'Paedo', it transpires, seems a little harder for him to stomach, probably because by contrast it's not true. 

It _is_ something of a relief, however, to have the announcement of the bonding behind him. 

That's beyond stupid, obviously, as it won't change the reception of the news, not in the short term, but he _had_ rather been dreading it all day. Well, after he got done dreading the notification of the other staff members, that is. His free hand reaches up and rubs his ribs purely by reflex just at the thought. 

Hagrid. 

Bless.  
  


_His snakes_ had believed in him, which provided some consolation. That most likely would have been a betrayal too far had they not. Their expressions, their body language revealed much. Casual Legilimency did the rest. Their displeasure was directed at the Headmaster and the outcry from the other tables. They had silently rallied to his... side.  
  


But not quite his... _defence_. 

Part of that was natural caution, something he can only applaud. Merlin knows, his life would have been... _so_ different had he only hesitated before taking action once in a while. 

Or perhaps he'd be dead, he amends that thought. It's hard to say. Either way, certainly... _different_.  
  


Mostly the Slytherins' reserve stemmed from not being sure _how_ to come to his defence. Yet. It's next to impossible to manoeuvre judiciously in the absence of information. But there is untapped potential there. Something to work with. 

Unfortunately, he'll be disinclined to help them much with that, seeing it as too self-serving. That it _may_ be, but it would also help them defend themselves against the calumny some quarters are all too fond of engaging in. Not that they're exactly innocent of the same, of course, but then, not even the _Hufflepuffs_ refrain; expecting a _Slytherin_ to do so is patently ridiculous. 

Fortunately, for him _and_ them, _they're_ not dependent on him to supply them with the means to act.  
  


Thinking of things to work with... He pushes Draco again, propelling him forward, and smirks to himself at the sight. 

Severus has been saddled with an incredibly cumbersome Geas that should prove absurdly difficult to manage. Because why the hell not? Really, he doesn't know what Albus was thinking, although the time for wondering _has_ rather passed. But as luck would have it, he's _just_ been handed a golden opportunity to make his life a _great_ deal easier effectively within minutes of the bond being announced.

That _is_ lucky. It's about time something broke his way. 

Things could be worse. They _will_ be worse. But just for this moment, they're coming together fairly nicely. He chooses to focus on the positive for a change. How novel. 

First things first. For all her agitation earlier, Miss Granger is quite evidently unharmed. She's no longer even particularly upset really, judging by the bond. Variable creature. She's probably sought the comfort of her... feline. 

_And_ a book.  
  


Beyond that, Draco's unwaning idiocy provides Severus with the ideal opening to see to it that word gets back to the parties that matter, both in _and_ outside of the castle, that the witch stands under _his protection_ , that his Vows mean he _will_ act to see she's kept safe. He couldn't have asked for anyone better positioned for that news to spread, thoroughly and quickly. And he can accomplish _that_ at no additional risk whatsoever to himself, and it would seem with only minimal inconvenience to Miss Granger in the process. Splendid. 

All of that coupled with a perfectly legitimate excuse to have Draco pay for his misdeeds a little further... Not to mention thanking him _properly_ for instigating this fiasco, of course. How marvellously... _fortuitous_. 

Additionally, Miss Granger, he is sure, is firmly in denial about the events of Friday, and that will certainly lead to difficulties. Sooner rather than later, if he's any judge. He has the chance to address that here as well. 

He hadn't wished to force the issue. For a _variety_ of reasons. Beyond a natural reluctance, he's unsure of the ethicality of doing so, but then he's quite accustomed to ignoring the ethics of things. He's grown almost comfortable with it in fact. However, the _efficacy_ of making her confront some of those issues is equally in question, and far more relevant. But he's quite certain, _this_ should do double duty. 

Multitasking, how lovely.  
  


He's thought about his Unbreakable Vow to Narcissa a _lot_ since yesterday. Apparently being strong-armed into bonding a student combined with the nature of Draco's... activities Friday had provided... adequate motivation. There's almost always leeway in Vows and Oaths; he personally doesn't hold much store by them. Still, far better than relying solely on Legilimency, as the Dark Lord does, assuming one is sufficiently detail oriented. 

Narcissa, naturally, hadn't been cautious enough, or hadn't dared try to ask for more, whichever, but the way the Vows were phrased left him protecting Draco from harm only to the best of his own ability while the boy 'attempts to fulfil the Dark Lord's wishes'. 

Well then. That's fairly amorphous. Severus had probably promised to do more when he agreed to become his godfather. Admittedly without threat of the pains of death should he fail. Preferable on balance, no question. 

When one considers that _educational_ measures are obviously in the lad's _best interests_... Not _absolutely_ harmful in the least... Not at all. No, they're practically _advantageous_. As long as what he does to Draco can be framed as for the boy's 'own good', he can get away with almost _anything_. 

And intends to.  
  


Unfortunately, not everything can be couched as 'educational', no matter how much he'd like it. Some things are all too obviously... retaliatory. And it's probably wise not to be seen as such, not too often anyway. He wouldn't want to give Bella any ideas. 

In an effort to remain undetected last night, he'd had to resort to having Sunny arrange Draco's plunge down the stairwell instead of simply doing it himself. On the other hand, it _had_ made it easier for him to catch the boy, breaking just the _right_ number of limbs in the process. That would be _all_ of them, naturally. Poppy had had him on a variety of exceedingly painful Mending Charms and Regrowth Potions all day long. And there again was another fine example of the weaknesses of Vows, as well as the dangers house elves present. 

Sunny, thankfully, isn't plagued by issues of conscience. For all their ear wringing, Severus isn't convinced house elves _have_ consciences in the typical _human_ sense of the word. They certainly have completely different standards. 

It's probably better that way.

* * *

  


Arriving at their destination, Severus frog marches the boy into the room, a shove sends him nearly sprawling. Draco half turns on the ground trying to face his enraged Head of House, but the man is already upon him. 

"Did you learn nothing Friday?"

"Sir?"

"You persist in compounding your stupidity." 

Draco is smart enough to hold his tongue for once and lies there staring at him in silence. As the silence stretches, an awareness of their surroundings filters in. 

There's a brief moment of disorientation as they both look about discreetly in confusion. Neither lets that moment last long. They are both far too accustomed to not _allowing_ themselves any weakness and certainly never _showing_ any if humanly possible.

But the grounds for their confusion is more than reasonable. The room, one that they had both last been in together only three evenings ago, has somehow, improbably, _rotated_ ninety degrees. Clockwise, not that most wizards know the term, as Severus would happily, pedantically, disdainfully point out. Repeatedly. And has. 

Except the room hasn't rotated of course, the windows make that only too clear. But someone, obviously a member of the staff, had rearranged the room. Quite thoroughly. 

The individual student desks have been replaced with tables for three, the chairs have yielded to benches. It more closely resembles Severus' own classroom configuration now, except he has stools instead. The Professor's desk is now off to the right and no longer at the front as one enters. And her _chair_... 

It's completely plain, devoid of all decoration. Gone is the embellishing splat, replaced by vertical square dowels that now comprise the chair's austere backrest. It's an effect somewhere between Mackintosh and minimalism, and utterly uncharacteristic of Minerva, a Transfigurations Mistress much enamoured of ornamentation. Her chair is _nothing_ like the one that stood here just days ago. 

The one to which Miss Granger had been tied.  
  


And suddenly it's clear. Minerva. She had seen his memories of Friday. Some of them, anyway. Perhaps she could also no longer stand the sight of the room and that chair herself, but well aware Miss Granger would be forced to return to her classroom, Minerva had set about changing it as best she could. 

Severus appreciates that act of kindness. Greatly. He feels he... _owes_ her for it. He doesn't interrogate why he should feel _he_ is more responsible for Miss Granger's well being than her Head of House, which is just as well. He seems to be slipping into that role without much deliberation. That's probably for the best. He wouldn't be pleased to notice it.  
  


He doesn't consider long, he acts on impulse. It's just a token really, but it will have to do for now. An arc of his wand moves the piece of furniture to the space between Minerva's desk and the students', directly before where Draco now lies. Severus steps over the boy, like so much rubbish in the street, taking a stand in front of her new chair with it's closely spaced bannisters. 

With a few flicks of his wand, he carves a shallow image of Minerva's Animagus form, her cat form, into the backrest's front surface. She'll know when she sees it that it must have been a staff member, students can't make any significant changes to inventory. 

Shy of explosions in _his_ classroom, he rectifies wryly. How bleeding _typical_ of his luck. 

He's satisfied with the result of his Charms on the chair. 

He's an overly critical idiot - it turns out beautifully, of course. He wouldn't settle for anything less. Woodworking is a bit of a hobby of his, and he's equally good with a knife or a wand. He enjoys sculpting beauty out of an unremarkable block of wood, just as he loves making a viable potion or a delicious meal from a motley assortment of inauspicious ingredients for much the same reasons. 

Strangely, he's never noticed any significance in the importance he places on things having _hidden_ value, easily overlooked, or in the pleasure he derives from revealing it.  
  


Minerva will probably suspect he's the one who modified her chair. That's... acceptable. He's basically tagged her seat, he thinks with a silent huff of amusement. But she'll probably understand the implicit thanks, even if she _is_ a Gryffindor.  
  


He reaches down and grabs Draco by the front of his robes, twisting his fists tightly in the fabric and pulling him upright like a limp rag doll. He gives him a bit of a shake for good measure as he plucks the wand from the boy's sleeve. 

Draco's no longer small, by any means, but Severus is exceptionally tall and towers over the lad. He may be thin, too thin by far for his size, but he's wiry and he has a man's build, and the boy is dwarfed beside him. Draco is all too familiar with being menaced with magic, which reveals far too much about his terrifying home life, but the _physical_ , the _purely_ physical is something he hasn't had to face all that often. It has a way of getting through to a person. 

And Severus is very eager to make himself... _heard_.  
  


He throws the blond into the chair, a good deal harder than necessary to get the job done, and with a couple more sweeps of his wand has him bound there just as Miss Granger had been not seventy-two hours before. He spins Draco's wand between his long fingers demonstratively before placing it in much the same location the boys had left Miss Granger's wand Friday evening. Draco's eyes betray his recognition of that fact. 

"I think we have some things to discuss," Severus begins, the threat of what's to come clear in his tone.

* * *

  


Draco finds himself in a bit of a bind, literally and figuratively. Right now, the lot of his Housemates owling home can only relate that _something_ , undefined, happened to him yesterday, he spent the night and most of the day in the Infirmary, and he consequently did... _something_ , equally undisclosed, at dinner that seems to have landed him squarely in trouble. That's not nearly as helpful as he'd like. 

Or _needs_. 

Severus, obviously, will be able and possibly even willing or _obliged_ to report back more to the Manor, except he's undoubtedly not well disposed towards him right now. Not in the least. The tightness of the ligatures forming the literal part of said bind was a pretty good hint of that, if nothing else. 

When Severus is done with him, there are likely to be indications - Merlin, if he's lucky, they'll be _only_ that - of what transpired. Theo is bright enough to deduce what happened, good enough to send word home, and connected enough that it would go to the _right_ people. But he's not necessarily _trusted_ enough, considered _reliable_ enough, for that to help sufficiently, and Draco desperately needs _help_. 

So in the absence of better options, or any other options at all, really, Draco takes a gamble. There are at least three good reasons this will explode in his face like one of Longbottom's cauldrons, but there's a good chance, once Severus has some time to reflect, that he'll pass along the information that will save Draco's neck. Still, he expects it will be painful. 

Extremely so. 

In a terrible rush of words that don't make nearly as much sense as Draco would like, he starts to tell the fuming wizard all about how Potter, and presumably Weasley, had thrown him down the Grand Staircase last night, putting him in the Infirmary. Once yet again.  
  


Bugger. Severus hadn't deliberately intended to leave the boy in the certainty that Potter had attacked him. That was completely inadvertent. And, it seems, unfortunate. He quite honestly hadn't known about the Weasleys' Wheeze. Poor reconnaissance, that's what it was, but Sunny didn't know any better, and he himself _had_ been busy being comatose after all. And getting bonded... And whose fault was _that_? Draco is a clear favourite for that particular title.

Truth be told, he was probably enjoying cake, _immensely_ , at that exact moment, but he sees no need to split hairs. Well, not out loud. 

But this current situation _is_ more than a little Severus' own fault... And then he reminds himself that the boy hadn't hesitated to... He's still not sure _what_ exactly he did to Miss Granger earlier but 'torment' seems a suitable word. He hadn't hesitated to _torment_ someone he'd _already_ harmed. _Again_. It assuages much of the guilt Severus might feel here. 

Picturing Miss Granger, more than a little unwillingly, as she'd been in this room Friday dispels most of his last remaining doubts...  
  


Thanking Severus somewhat obsequiously, admittedly he may be babbling, for the rescue last night - his Arresto Momentum Duo had meant the difference between life and death, there are no two ways about it - Draco quickly proceeds to attempt to explain how he _had_ to take action, and soon, or he'd be in a great deal of trouble. ' _He's_ ' not known for his patience. ' _They_ ' aren't going to care the hear he'd done something a week from now... Or even tomorrow. Draco needed to act, and he _did_.  
  


Severus understands only too well. He has much the same problems. Regularly. But the fact remains that Draco chose the _one_ person he _shouldn't have_ , and Severus' life will be greatly simplified the sooner everyone comes to accept that and leaves the witch the hell alone. 

Always assuming the Dark Lord doesn't just kill him for bonding her in the first place, that is. 

So they both find themselves in the oh so noble positions of choosing to inflict harm on someone else to keep _Him_... sweet. 

Aren't they the stalwarts of society? Shining exemplars of their brave new world.  
  


"Well then, I'll be sure to let them know you _tried_." Severus hisses at him. "Shall I tell them how _ineffective_ your paltry attempt was?" 

_That_ naturally was the nature of the gamble. Severus was clearly incensed, but if Severus were to get past that rage, he's probably the one best placed in Hogwarts to make it clear to those who mattered both that Draco _had_ tried to do something and probably won't be in any position to risk doing so _again_. 

Obviously, were he to find himself with the opportunity to take action against Potter directly, and get away with it, of course, he would be expected to do so, and certainly not adverse to it, he'd never claim otherwise, but there will no longer be any _pressure_ to act. Not if he wants to have any chance with his primary task of murdering Dumbledore that is. 

Whatever Severus has in store for him will probably hurt, but it _won't_ kill him. These days, _that's_ a win.  
  


"I believe I was quite clear," Severus proceeds. "But perhaps you weren't in a receptive frame of mind. If you have problems with _Potter_ , I expect you to take them up with _Potter_." And right _there_ was the first reason Draco anticipates Severus to have little understanding for his actions. Respecting witches in general and undoubtedly his godfather's bondmate in the specific case should be reasons two and three. 

" _And_ not get _caught_ while about it," Severus continues, seething. Hmm. Yes, there was that, too. Draco wisely doesn't point out that _getting caught_ was rather the whole _point_ of what he'd done. Severus can't know that, he can't even _suspect_ it, or this won't help him when Draco faces his Aunt and the Dark Lord. It doesn't occur to him that Severus is far more capable of Occluding than he is, or _might_ just be inclined to protect him from those two, even after all he's done. He's not used to having anyone's help. 

"Somehow you seem to have done the _diametrical opposite_ of that. But your accuracy in doing so was almost admirable." Draco recognises sarcasm when he hears it. It's practically his native tongue. Severus' face is virtually a rictus of loathing. This won't end well for him, Draco is sure.  
  


Draco believes he's ready, braced for whatever comes next, but Severus' silent Stupefy still takes him by surprise, not that he has time to react to it. His body sags unconscious against the ropes holding him to McGonagall's chair.

* * *

  


Severus looks thoughtfully at the boy as he considers his next move. He doesn't have much time, and a number of things yet to accomplish. In the interests of expediency, he summons his elf. 

"Sunny, could you tell me where Miss Granger is at the moment?"

"Mistress is in chambers, Master of Potions, Sir."

"Would you please ask her to meet me in front of the Great Hall? I'll meet her halfway."

"Yes, Sir, Master, Sir," Sunny answers and is gone from one moment to the next with the softest of pops to mark his vanishing.  
  


Severus heads back to the Great Hall, to meet Miss Granger before the doors. He didn't want her making her way _there_ again on her own, nor did he wish to increase her anxiety by announcing his intentions. This seems a reasonable compromise.

His legs are longer, he was already en route and reaches his destination before the young woman, and can't help a bit of pacing as he marks the time. Still, she doesn't leave him waiting long. 

"Sir, Sunny said you wanted me to meet you here?" He spins to face her as she speaks. She had apparently changed out of her uniform after dinner into jeans, trainers and one of those fitted blouses she seems to favour in private of late, the ones that leave him somewhat discomfited. Fortunately there's very little lace involved tonight. Small favours. She hadn't paused to do more than don a covering robe at Sunny's summons. He... appreciates her prompt response. 

"As my presence here would seem to confirm..." He's got one eyebrow raised and a look on his face that clearly says she's slow witted, but the words lack bite. She suspects he's trying to wind her up. 

As she meets his eyes, he does an exceptionally careful bit of Legilimency to determine what precisely Draco had said before. It's very precise, and he veers to neither side in her memories in a somewhat contradictory consideration of her privacy. He views _this_ information as necessary to what he has planned, but correctly considers it unlikely she would tell him. He also finds trying to force her to do so, _insisting_ that she do so, a cruelty too far. 

She might not see it the same way, but then she also hasn't supplied him with the information they had agreed to. So for better or worse, he's sorted it as harmlessly as he knows how. And frankly, for such an accomplished Legilimens as himself, it's almost second nature.  
  


He now has a slight problem. Having seen what actually transpired, he realises what Draco must have been trying to do. The fool boy had very clearly, deliberately _not_ done anything _he_ considers particularly... _bad_. _Offensive_. Severus weighs the irony of that. 

No, the boy had opted for something he considered essentially... _harmless_. It makes perfect sense when one considers Draco's ability to Occlude coupled with the verbal abuse he's been subjected to all his life. Severus is only too familiar with the effects of _that_. The Malfoys' home situation has _never_ been good. Lucius had always been far from understanding or supportive, becoming more and more like his father Abraxas with age, but since the Death Eaters had begun using the Manor as their home base... 

No, Draco hadn't hexed her, he attacked with words. That _she_ might be better equipped to deal with a hex probably never crossed his feeble little mind. And Severus has a pretty good idea of why Draco would do something so utterly useless and public. He may as well have dipped her plaits in an ink pot or tugged her bunches for all it had achieved. 

A substantial portion of Severus' anger at the boy dissipates as he considers it. He no longer wishes to make him... squirm. But. She had definitely been... hurt by the confrontation, and there will be an expectation of how he should respond to this. 

Miss Granger's Loyalty Vow _may_ provide _him_ with some protection were he to explain his inaction or mercy to her, should he choose not to act, but that Vow doesn't extend to Draco. Her memories aren't safe. Failing that, the action he takes needs to make sense from her standpoint too. And the boy's memories of a punishment _will_ prove useful, _for all three of them_ , the next time he's called to the Manor. 

Whatever Severus does needs to be decisive, something that explains perfectly why Draco _never_ takes action against her again. It won't be pleasant, but he has a notion of how to keep this short. 

He'll send Sunny to Theo with the Anti-spasmodic later.  
  


"Present and accounted for, then," she quips, completely unaware of what had just transpired. "May I ask what you wanted?"

"You may." He turns with a swirl of his cloak, clearly intending to say no more, and she can't help smirking. It's unusual to encounter someone with more verbal precision than she has. Still, as he hasn't said to follow, she just remains standing. Two can play that game. He rectifies that with a short, "Do keep up, Miss Granger." 

She has to jog after him to do so, initially, and she's still weighing whether the small satisfaction turnabout had provided was worth the indignity of doing so. But as she draws abreast, he actually slows so she can easily keep pace. He says nothing as he does it, doesn't even cast a glance her way, but there's something companionable, inclusive, and frankly considerate about it that wars with the cool indifference he otherwise projects. Determined not to make the same mistake she had yesterday, today she keeps pace. She's stopped wondering about verbal sparring and shifted her focus onto that, and it's a while before she notices where they're headed. 

When she does, she comes to an involuntary halt in her tracks.

"Sir?" The best she can manage is a very faint and pleading tone. It's not even close to what she intended. She tries to clear her throat, wanting to try that again, but somehow can't seem to find her voice at all now. He understands, and this is something for which he _does_ have patience. Surprisingly, from her viewpoint. Less so from his. 

The fear he can feel radiating from her removes the last bit of hesitation he has about punishing Draco. It's entirely the boys' doing, and their ringleader is about to pay for it. 

"Come, Miss Granger, it will be alright." He turns slightly to face her and reaches out a hand to take hers. Their fingers close around each other's, and he leads her back to his side. Once she reaches it, he switches his hands and places her arm through the crook of his, and in a very elegant fashion, almost nonchalantly escorts her towards the Transfigurations classroom door as if they were out for an evening stroll. 

"Someone needs to apologise for his appalling behaviour." She tenses just a bit, and he drops his arm from hers to let his hand slide supportively to the small of her back. Bending closer to her, he speaks low enough so that only she will hear, no matter how much the portraits might try, practically whispering in her ear, "I'm here, and you have absolutely _nothing_ to worry about. But I think it's important that we clear the air." 

She just nods and swallows hard at that. He's right, of course. It won't have been good that the bond had demanded his assistance earlier... She's even less aware than he is that his watchful eye hadn't been a manifestation of the Geas. She also needs to return to this classroom tomorrow, but she has no idea how to do it. If her difficulty now is any indication... 

Holy Cricket. This wasn't going to be easy. 

And right now, she had someone literally leading her there by the hand. Maybe she should have told Harry what happened. But then she wasn't allowed to, was she? She has to swallow again, blinks a few times to stop the tears that threaten to fall, and the Professor, who's been keeping a close but surreptitious eye on her, waits until she's regained control before opening the door. 

She shouldn't be surprised, but is, when he opens it to see Malfoy sitting there. Clearly Stupefied, bound to a chair, the position frighteningly familiar, slumped against the ropes, faced towards the door. The Potions Master leads her into the room and effectively parks her not too far from the blond. 

She stays there as though rooted to the spot. She can feel the hairs on the back of her neck rising at her tension; she couldn't move another step if she wanted to. But then, she very much doesn't wish to go further. However, she's not altogether sure she wants to _leave_ , either. 

Severus waits for the young woman to calm down some. He can see her struggle to gather herself. And of course their bond betrays the rest. 

She hadn't quite realised how badly off she was. She thought she had a better handle on this. She has no idea how she ever thought she could face Malfoy in this classroom again. What did she think she was she going to do for Transfigurations tomorrow morning? 

Gods. This was _difficult_.

Draco seems to agree with that sentiment, fully, as Severus turns a rather powerful and decidedly cold Aqua Eructo on him, drenching him most thoroughly and pulling him roughly back to consciousness from the Stupefy. A Rennervate to revive him was clearly deemed far too comfortable by comparison. The boy splutters and shakes his head, trying to get the water from his eyes. 

"Malfoy, how good of you to join us." The Professor's voice is pure ice. He's truly imposing when he draws himself up like that, and she shouldn't like to be in Malfoy's shoes.

Except that was just the problem. She had been, and all too recently.

"I don't think you've been properly introduced. Allow me. May I present, Madam Snape." With a dramatic sweep of his hand, he indicates Miss Granger; Draco is still struggling to take it all in. " _My_ wife, and I expect you to treat her accordingly. I believe you owe her an apology.

"Was I less than clear Friday night? Or are you simply uncertain how to properly address the _wife_ of your Head of House?" He sounds _incredibly_ angry now, and he's doing a fantastic job of unnerving both the young witch and wizard. "Shall I give you a hint? It's not 'Mudblood'." 

Hermione turns to stare at him at that, because she's pretty sure he can only know that if he used Legilimency on her. He can't possibly have heard. Perhaps he used it on Malfoy again. If she felt uncomfortable with this whole arrangement before, she's gone beyond that now. She knows the bond will have told the Professor as much, but she has no experience with suppressing these kinds of feelings, and he doesn't miss a beat as he continues, very much the terrifying Death Eater he had told her he was. 

It's so at odds with the consideration he shown her just minutes ago in the hallway that she isn't sure what to make of it. 

The bond transmits that uncertainty of hers as well, and even if she doesn't begin to understand it, it encourages him to continue. Had she simply discounted him as evil, he'd probably be less invested in ensuring her safety. And that's a significant part of what he is doing.

"You, my _boy_ ," there's that inflection for 'boy' again, "don't seem to appreciate the gift you've been given. Instead of flying out of this school on your arse, you remain, and _this_ is how you conduct yourself? 

"What did I tell you about treating women appropriately? What led you to think I wasn't serious? And just how did you arrive at the conclusion my _wife_ shouldn't be treated at least as well?" Dimly Draco notes that's objections two and three accounted for then. Severus sounds furious, and his questions are punctuated by small drops of spittle flying from his mouth. "And what on earth possessed you to think I'd stand for it? I do believe it's past time to work on those manners of yours. Such terribly poor breeding. Whatever would your mother say?

"And what part of not speaking about the events of Friday was too difficult for you to comprehend? You _will not_ speak of them again. If you so much as _hint_ of them to her," this accompanied by a stab of his hand towards Hermione, whom he has otherwise largely ignored. She finds herself on the verge of panicking, wishing she were _anywhere_ else. "...Or in her presence, or encourage anyone else to do so, you will wish you had never drawn breath. Am I clear enough for you _now_? 

"Currently, the only one paying for that remarkable bout of imbecility Friday is myself. Rest assured, that shall not remain the case." The barely controlled fury in his voice is at complete odds with what she can feel through the bond, and serves only to confuse her further.

Then in a move so sudden she couldn't follow it, he's drawn his wand, flicked it at the boy and removed his clothes, much as Madam Pomfrey does, except that the Potions Master drops them crumpled in a pile in the corner with a wet 'squish' and leaves the young Slytherin bound to the chair in nothing but his pants. The visual very clearly echoes her exposure from Friday, and she is immensely uncomfortable seeing it. 

The Professor possibly isn't doing all that much better with it, and he turns his back to the blond, as though he weren't worth another glance. He looks at Hermione again for the first time since they entered the room. With another movement, he's clearly cast an Unforgiveable, the Cruciatus, on Malfoy and doesn't lift it for what seems like an age. She knows it must have been only moments, but they stretch interminably. She can't begin to imagine how long they must seem to him.

Hermione is appalled at the sight. She averts her gaze, looking at the Professor instead, their eyes lock, while in the background Malfoy twitches and screams. The Potions Master hits the boy with the Curse again, and soon enough, he's seated in a puddle of urine. 

"Oh, _look_ ," he cries, directing her attention to the blond, "he's soiled himself. Shall we take a picture? Something to remember the evening by? Perhaps send Lucius a copy? How proud he must be to have such a fine..." a scornful glance at the boy's crotch is followed by a derogatory, " _specimen_ for a son."

It's not long before Hermione hears a voice she can hardly recognise as her own _begging_ him to stop. 

"I don't believe I can, Madam Snape. He has failed to apologise. What do you say to your godmother, Draco? Hmm?" Hermione goes a particularly harsh shade of chartreuse at that tidbit. Draco looks worse. She had wondered about Professor Snape's relationship to the young man, especially since he called him 'Uncle', but never imagined they were this close. Somehow it makes the scene that much harder for her to witness. 

But what really confuses her is the approval she can feel lapping through their bond. She assumed from his demeanour that he would be infuriated at her interruption, at best irritated or possibly disappointed if he actually cared about her actions. She can't imagine he does, but still... _Approval_ makes absolutely no sense at all.

"I'm sorry!" Draco gasps, "Merlin, I'm sorry! I'll never do it again." He finishes that last on a sob, and there's no doubting his desperation. His sincerity may be another question, but Hermione is quite sure he'll wish to avoid a repeat of this evening at all costs. 

"And Draco, she didn't have to come running to me to tell me of your amusing little asides. Unlike _you_ , she understands what it means not to say a word. But thanks to your... escapades Friday, I'm now in a position to _know_ even when she doesn't say a thing. 

"Should you decide to try anything like this again, ever again, you won't leave the room under your own steam. Leave the witch be, and do rein in your idiocy, before I am required to do so for you. Have I made myself clear enough for you _this_ time?" Draco merely nods stupidly in response, tears streaming down his face, drool covering his chin, the tremors from the Cruciatus after effects already setting in, and his pants very noticeably stained.

"Get dressed and return to your room. Now. Before I reconsider." And with that, the boy is no longer restrained in the chair and flops to the floor where he begins a torturously slow scramble for his clothes, plunked indiscriminately in a damp heap a few yards away.  
  


Miss Granger meanwhile has turned, studiously avoiding Draco, and is staring at a portrait of a group of centaurs with a frankly disturbed expression. He doesn't know why, can't begin to guess, but suspects she spent too long staring at it Friday night and is having problems with the associated memories. True enough. 

Quite a number of problems from what she's projecting. 

Well, that's precisely what a practice run is good for. No better time than the present to address those issues. 

A wave of his wand has the portrait detached from the wall, faculty privileges, and he shrinks it and places it in his pocket. He'll have Sunny return it to Minerva later with a note of explanation. After everything else she was willing to do to change her classroom, he's sure his colleague won't mind the liberty he's taking. Miss Granger's eyes widen as she follows his movements, but she visibly relaxes ever so slightly once the painting has disappeared from sight. He takes it for confirmation that he's handling this properly.  
  


The young woman wants nothing more than to bolt, to run from here, leaving this classroom and the sight of Malfoy far behind her. Everything about her screams it. So naturally he can't let her. For once he isn't doing that to be difficult. It's a sensible precaution, a measure he can take now to make tomorrow easier for her. 

And by extension himself, of course. 

He'll keep her here a little longer, until she becomes more comfortable with both the room _and_ the presence of her assailant. Whether it's occurred to her or not, she shares _every single one_ of her classes with the boy. She needs to be able to get past her panic. Her fear. And it will give _both_ of them something entirely different to associate with this room. Draco will _never_ taunt her again.  
  


Severus looks around the classroom once more. It seems in poor form to leave Minerva's chair in such a state, and so he Scourgifies it before magicking it back into place behind her desk. With a glance at the nervous witch to his side, he has another bit of inspiration and asks, "Where do you sit?"

Hermione neither understands the point of the question nor hesitates to even so much as consider asking about it. She simply tries to answer. She has to look around for a moment, the layout, the furniture has changed, but assuming she takes a seat at the table that's now the equivalent of the desk at which she'd sat... Biting her lower lip, she points to a spot in the middle of the front row bench to the left of Professor McGonagall's desk, "There, I suppose." She sounds every bit as unsteady as she feels, but she's holding up remarkably well all considered.

Certainly better than Draco, who is a gibbering mess, still sobbing in the corner. To be fair, the Cruciatus is no easy thing to take. 

He had it coming. 

Ignoring the boy, Severus crosses the room to the bench she had indicated and takes a seat. He looks at her a moment, calculating, and then absurdly slouches slightly, it seems so incongruous she thinks she's imagined it, except she hasn't, and then he draws his wand and gets to work on Minerva's chair again.  
  


Hermione can see he's using a Charm to carve... _something_ into the wood of the backrest, and without thinking advances to where he sits. He finishes, rises, vacates the bench and with a gesture, a wave of his hand indicates she should take a seat in his stead. When she does and looks again at Professor McGonagall's chair, she's stunned to see the left side of the chair's bannisters have now been carved. From this position, from her seat, she's looking at a perfect rendition of... Crooks. 

He actually made a carving of _Crooks_ on the chair. 

She turns to him with a look of wonder, but thankfully has the foresight to refrain from saying anything too revealing in Malfoy's presence. She half leaps from the bench and tries looking at it from different angles. Only from her seat does the carving resolve into an unmistakable image of her cherished familiar. It's a _stunning_ bit of precision and projection to make that work, and she's quite taken... With his work, of course.  
  


He observes her very evident pleasure, and it's not a patch on what he feels through the bond. Encouraged, keeping a close eye on her for signs of distress and seeking her approval, and isn't _that_ unexpected, he lifts his wand again and begins to work the front legs of Minerva's chair until they have echoes of the same design Miss Granger's own desk chair in their quarters has. She had liked it, he'd known that as soon as she saw it. He hopes this will give her a sense of... ownership. Make her feel more... at home in this room.  
  


It does. He can _feel_ it, and it drives him to continue until all four legs, both arms and stiles are done. The absurdity of that, that the association with something that only a day before had been _his_ chair, _his_ quarters, that _that_ should provide her with a sense of comfort... Fortunately it doesn't occur to him in the moment. And later he'll have other things on his mind. 

His efforts have the benefit of returning some of the ornamentation to the furniture that Minerva had generously been willing to forgo. And at the least, he suspects Minerva would be likely to forgive him for his presumption if it is meant to help her favourite cub.  
  


"Would you mind, terribly, doing another?" She still sounds timid, but her appreciation of his work is overriding her fear. She gestures to the chair, and he lifts an eyebrow, prompting her to continue. "From here," she says, stopping by the door and turning back to face the room. 

"What would you like?" He asks. People don't seem to be too concerned with what _she_ likes just at the moment, and something in her responds _strongly_ to that simple query. And something in _him_ responds to that response, not that it shows. Much. 

"If you wouldn't mind," she answers, her voice gaining confidence, "a crow. In flight. Descending." Her hand goes up to reflexively finger her pendant, it appears to be a miniature phial. Had someone offered him a considerable number of Galleons, he still wouldn't have been able to guess that as her motif of choice, and he can't begin to fathom why she'd want it. But _that_ isn't the point of this exercise. 

"Show me?" He asks turning to face her, and she shifts position coming to stand closer to him, _very_ close to him, so he can more easily meet her eyes. He finds something... reassuring, _appealing_ in her willingness to approach him despite the fear his performance just moments ago had so obviously engendered. She still _trusts_ him, and that's... unexpectedly important. 

A soft Legilimens later, he's _incredibly_ gentle, and he sees what she means. He still hasn't the remotest idea _why_ she wants it, he hadn't pried, but he knows precisely _what_ she wants. He moves to the doorway. It's only the work of another moment, that and a slightly silly hunching to her height, that she finds anything _but_ and that he is somehow willing to do despite her presence to witness it, Draco is in no shape to notice, to etch the crow into the right side of the square dowels that form the backrest. From this position, as she enters the room, the diving crow is visible. 

Again she ducks, steps to the side, and then makes a ridiculous little hop to ascertain that if someone is taller or shorter, they won't be able to see what she sees. It's like a delicious secret. She nibbles on her lower lip, biting back her nervous smile. 

He may not know it or even suspect it, but that's how she sees _him_. How he swooped in Friday to save her. The image provides her with some comfort. A good deal of it, in fact. Her hand closes tightly about her necklace as she looks at it and finally, _finally_ begins to smile.  
  


He can feel her begin to relax, and decides he's accomplished what he can here. Draco has begun to collect himself and attempt to get dressed, and it's probably for the best if they don't remain here much longer. Severus' expression clouds again, and he crosses to the table where he'd placed Draco's wand. In a move meant to demonstrate that he has nothing whatsoever to fear from the boy, he tosses the wand onto the top of his heap of clothes, clearly showing how little he cares if he's armed. It has the advantage of leaving Draco better able to help clean and dry himself in the process.  
  


The blond looks up from the floor as he does it, not missing the usefulness of the action, and with an incredibly raw voice that breaks as he tries to speak tells him, "Thank you, Sir." 

Severus nods coolly, glaring. Draco gathers what he can of his mettle, he has something crucial to say, but precious little desire to risk doing so. Still, it _needs_ doing, and he continues, "You should know. Friday." He gulps and his eyes close, bracing for an explosion that fortunately doesn't come. "Theo asked us, _told_ us to stop." 

It dawns on him that might just have made things worse, that it might leave Theo in even more trouble, just with different people, which was hardly the point. He isn't trying to make it appear that his friend is disloyal or weak. He rephrases. "He said it wasn't very smart. We'd be caught. And we were."  
  


Severus stands silently, observing him for a moment. Then, his lips tight, he nods again. All considered, it took some courage for the boy to speak up just now. "Duly noted," he replies with audible contempt. "See to it you're back in the dorms before curfew unless you wish to spend still more time with Mr. Filch."  
  


Severus offers Hermione his arm, which she senses she should take for the sake of appearances, and he turns her away from this scene and leads her from the room. 

When they reach the hallway and the door is firmly closed behind them, he releases her. He faces her and is surprisingly tranquil and it's very difficult to reconcile his demeanour with the emotions he had on display mere moments ago, which makes her question how much of this is real and how much theatre. 

Without any malice or even the hint of reproach, he tells her, "Miss Granger, if you have any issues in the future, kindly inform me as soon as possible, so I can address them before things can get out of control. It reflects on both of us, and there are actions I shall be expected to take. _Your_ life, _my_ life may depend on it.

"I haven't the luxury, and by extension neither do you, to not act when _required_. I request that you aid me in this, and not leave me in the dark. 

“But I am... _hopeful_ that this shall take care of things for a while."

She gives him a small nod, and they turn and begin to make their way in silence back to their chambers for the evening. 

But _this_ time she finds herself walking by his side and doesn't venture from it.

  



	55. 11 10r Monday - Fireside Chat, the Darker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Severus and Hermione, Crooks, Sunny, the Squid_

Not even seventy-two hours ago, she would have been terrified of what she has witnessed tonight. She's never seen an Unforgivable applied like this, cold-blooded and ruthless, and _this_ from the man to whom she's been bonded. 

It's a very sobering thought. 

But a couple of things have changed. For one, the assault by the seventh year Slytherins has radically adjusted her view on the stakes they're facing. Reports in the paper have always seemed somehow... distant, unreal. And of course they're both unreliable and evidently censored. This brought _it_ far closer to home. For another, having seen the damage inflicted on the wizard beside her just three days ago, she knows that his frame of reference is _vastly_ different to hers. 

And from things Madam Pomfrey has indicated, she realises _that_ was just the tip of the witch's hat.

It also hadn't escaped her attention that he had been at the Malfoys' that evening, and she suspects that her classmate, too, has a very different frame of reference than she does. The Professor had basically indicated as much yesterday. And what had he said Friday about Malfoy being _accustomed_ to the Cruciatus? Crikey. _That's_ a horrifying thought...

Another thing entirely are the feelings she gets from this bond they share. Professor Snape seems remarkably calm and controlled. Not at all the lunatic he portrayed. Intuitively, she's _sure_ : the version the bond projects is _real_.

And ultimately, _this_ is the man who swept in, half dead, and possibly dying, and still took pains to _save_ her. That's very hard to overlook in her contemplations of his behaviour. 

When they reach their chambers, safely behind his wards once again, she finally speaks, "I'm not sure it works that way." He raises an eyebrow, questioning, honestly expecting the worst, and she surprises him with, "Godparenthood." 

Even though he's Occluding, via the bond she can feel a faint flicker of his surprise and then how he relaxes, but his body language betrays nothing. Interesting. She files that information away to be better able to gauge him in the future, or given that in the future the bond should continue to provide these insights, perhaps it's more to reinterpret past interactions. One thing is certain, he's _not_ as he seems. 

"I don't think you can marry into it," she informs him with a hint of amusement. 

"Technically, you are undoubtably correct," comes the sardonic rejoinder. "But the expression on Malfoy's face made the assertion, erroneous or not, more than... _worthwhile_. The veracity, or lack thereof, of the claim was purely a secondary concern," he continues as he crosses to his desk. He still needs to dash off the notes to Minerva and Theo.

"'Malfoy'? You call your godson ' _Malfoy_ '?" She follows him as far as the room's centre and then stops, observing him from a polite distance, not wishing to intrude. Well, _further_... 

"I am required to in school interactions, so it's not an unaccustomed form of address, precedent has been established, and after your... encounter the other day, I assumed familiarity would be... unwelcome." 

She finds that remarkably considerate, but suspects he won't wish to hear it.

"Forgive me for asking, but did Crucioing him fall under 'school interactions', or..." her smirk lets him know there's no answer required.

He surprises her by replying instead with another apology. "On the topic of forgiveness, I'm afraid I must beg your pardon for suggesting you weren't also paying for... Draco's attack." He looks over to see how the use of the boy's given name sits with her. The bond verifies his observations: she's unruffled. He adjusts his assessment of her accordingly. 

"Clearly the consequences have affected you at least as much as myself," he admits, thinking fleeting and somewhat unwillingly again of the ramifications to one's... love life. She tends to disagree, viewing it as likely that _he_ at least had a sex life before... _this_. Both would be quite surprised to know the other's thoughts on the matter, not that either would consider such a conversation probable or remotely desirable. 

"It is, however, _always_ necessary to maintain a certain façade. Never forget that; it will make our lives together safer, and simpler, if you do not. But don't think I am unaware of the sacrifices this might mean for you."

She's not sure where she finds the courage to ask the next question, but she's encouraged that he no longer seems to be channeling a raging madman. "Was it necessary to be so harsh?"

"Very much so. Trust me in this." 

He can tell: she honestly doesn't _distrust_ him, she accepts the _truth_ of his statement, yet she has difficulty believing, _understanding_ , what he says. She remains standing there, nibbling her lip or maybe giving it some thought, he's not quite sure which.  
  


He removes parchment from one of his drawers, grabs his ubiquitous black pheasant quill and ink bottle, Selkies' Silken Signatures - Beyond Basic Black, harvested by Merpeople direct from the Giant Squid, who as though somehow sensing its use tends to swim past Severus' window whenever he employs it and does so now. Severus leans forward over his desk preparing to write the notes as its shadow passes, while Miss Granger stands there goggling at the dark shape, and then he promptly reconsiders both missives. 

He won't risk sending Theo a note. Why complicate matters? The irony of that question escapes him. Completely. He'll have Sunny leave the potion on the boy's nightstand. Theo will recognise it - he bloody well _should_ , seventh year N.E.W.T.s Potions student that he is - and do the right thing, Severus is sure. 

Sure enough anyway. 

It's a risk he's prepared to take. Even more so as he isn't the one suffering the consequences, naturally. No, _that_ would be Draco, and he's more than welcome to suffer all _manner_ of consequences. Severus has even fewer qualms if people should happen to suffer for their stupidity. Or that of their friends, case in point. 

He _could have_ the potion left on Draco's nightstand instead, except that might be too obvious, and once he realised _why_ Draco had acted as he did before... This has the advantage of drawing Theo's scrutiny to Draco's condition, which increases the likelihood that Nott will send word back home. It would be such a... pity had he Crucioed Draco for... nothing. 

Well, hardly _nothing_ , even then, but he'd prefer to make the most of it.  
  


The issue of Minerva's note, on the other hand, proves more complicated, which is saying something. Severus had meant to just send the portrait back to her with an explanation for his actions. That sounded simple enough. Thinking it over, he decides he should surrender it to Albus to handle, to _manage_ , instead, in which case it would raise fewer questions if it were to appear Albus had removed it himself. There's a very good chance, having called attention to the portrait, that his colleague might think to question the centaurs in the painting as to the events of Friday. 

He believes it's highly unlikely she had done so before now - hell, _he_ hadn't even thought of it, although admittedly he was unaware of the painting's existence prior to tonight - that is unless Albus had sworn the centaurs to silence first. That's a possibility, although a less strong one given Albus' erratical behaviour of late. Severus would have surely heard if Minerva knew what had happened. 

There is _no_ conceivable way she would stand for allowing the boys to remain in the school were she aware of their actions. It's one of her finer points. Overly simplistic, hardly nuanced or differentiated, but essentially _moral_ , he'll give her that. Very briefly he thinks about pretending the thought never occurred to him and returning the portrait to her after all, before he grudgingly forces himself to be dutiful. Damn. 

That's unbelievably... irksome. 

But as he thinks about the painting he realises something else altogether. The centaurs had been present in that room Friday. And yet, he hadn't been summoned to the scene by the screams of _portraits_. Not a _single_ portrait along the way had encouraged him to hurry. 

Even allowing for the portraits preferring to report to someone _other_ than himself, there's no accounting for taste, _no one_ had been summoned by portraits. These unmitigated _asses_ , which given the subjects is even _more_ applicable here than it would be elsewhere... _They_ had stood by and... 

Watched. 

They _hadn't_ gone for help. They _hadn't_ sent word, summoned assistance... They had simply... _watched_. 

_Fucking voyeurs_.  
  


That portrait will _never_ hang anywhere but the darkest oubliette _ever_ again. Probably facing the wall. Always assuming he doesn't take turpentine to them first. At the moment, that seems more likely. _Far_ more likely. 

He scribbles a few lines for Minerva, thanking her for rearranging the room, mentioning Miss Granger's negative response to the painting and its subsequent removal. He avoids reference to its current whereabouts entirely, and hopes to distract her from _that_ thought with the enclosed signed voucher for a new portrait of her choice, on his Sickle of course, from Warts and Warhol's, Hogsmeade, in reparation for the one he absconded with. If it serves to show his appreciation materially as well, so be it. He considers it only efficient.  
  


He folds and pockets the note then crosses the room again, past Miss Granger to the dining area and opens the second door along that wall, just down from the fireplace and to the left of the room's only painting, the modern artwork, to reveal what appears to be his private laboratory. She's still standing there, arms wrapped around her body projecting her unease with her posture almost as clearly as with the bond. Although as far as she's concerned, she's simply waiting patiently until he's done with... whatever so as not to disturb him. 

He remains in the doorway, sadly but not deliberately blocking most of her view into the room. He summons and pockets a variety of potions and while so occupied misses the near automatic shift of her gaze to the remaining unidentified door behind the lounge, just a few yards to the left of hers, which by process of elimination she determines must be his bedroom. Presupposing that he doesn't sleep in the lab, obviously.  
  


He removes the portrait from his pocket, enlarges it once again and silently curses its subjects immobile. There will be no fleeing to another portrait for them until the Curse is lifted; he considers it... improbable. It's not by coincidence that there are no portraits to spy on him in their quarters. As long as the canvas remains here, they were effectively trapped anyway unless the centaurs had other paintings elsewhere. But the Curse eliminates _that_ risk and ensures they can't even caper about in their painted forest. He finds it... fitting. _All_ that remains for them is... _watching_. 

When he unceremoniously chucks the portrait inside the room with a resounding clatter as it skitters across the floor and slams the door to behind him, he startles her focus back to him, but can't begin to explain her blush.  
  


Severus still needs to inform the Dark Lord and his followers about his... bonding. It was announced at dinner; he has till morning until news of this latest piece of Dumbledore's genius spreads by owl. It's best if it comes from him directly. And soon. Either way, it won't be good at all.

Had it been left up to him, they wouldn't have announced it to the school until they _knew_ he had weathered reporting the bonding to the Inner Circle. It will only make matters more complicated for the young witch if he... _doesn't_. Weather it, that is. Far more complicated. He'd have spared her that. 

On the other hand, he _wouldn't_ be reporting it to the Dark Lord now _either_ , had they _not_ announced it to the school. 

Albus fucking Dumbledore. Fuckwit extraordinaire. 

He's frankly not sure he'll survive it. He hasn't really recovered yet from the last visit. 

Hardly surprisingly, he finds himself not altogether eager to go.  
  


Bone weary, he moves to his chair, only to discover the ginger beast has once again made himself at home. By this point, it's only what he expects. He just turns to look at _her_ , one eyebrow raised. That, also predictably, generates no more results than a scandalised, "Crooks!" which as best he can tell apparently translates to, 'carry on,' as far as the feline is concerned and for all the ruddy difference it makes. How quickly they seem to have settled into a routine. Happy families. Cheers. 

She scampers forward to remove... _Crooks_ from his chair and Vanish the fur, there's that, progress, and he takes a seat in front of the fire, indicating for the young woman, still clutching her ratty cat, to take the other.  
  


He can't help thinking he's being a bit maudlin, but on the not so off chance he doesn't survive, he'd like for her not to remember him as a complete monster. He wonders fleetingly if that's some carryover from childhood, how he pictured... marriage, and snorts at himself in derision. Whatever the motivation, he finds himself doing something fairly unusual for his standards; he decides to try to explain his actions to her. 

He starts simply, with just one word, "Ask," as she settles in with the beast perched quite smugly, as it appears is his wont, on her lap. 

It isn't at all what she was expecting, and she doubts he'll have much patience. She has no way of knowing that his procrastination is providing him with reserves of patience he wouldn't otherwise have. She considers for a moment so as not to waste one of what she assumes will be few questions. 

"And leaving him sitting in his own filth..." She's having a hard time phrasing this as a question. She doesn't have the courage, or really the desire, to appear to attack him, as most questions she might ask undoubtedly would seem to, so she finds herself making a leading statement. Inviting clarification. _Hesitantly_. 

"Technically, we left him crawling on the floor," a small smirk plays about his lips, he clearly enjoys getting some of his own back on the pedantic woman before him. 

Now that he's _acted_ , responded to Draco's challenge in a way any of the Death Eaters would comprehend, and probably _endorse_ , her memories pose no threat. It no longer matters _what_ he says to her. _Words_ are practically synonymous with _lies_ ; he needn't justify them. The only thing that _counted_ was his Unforgivable. 

Given that, he can answer truthfully. 

His tone turns more matter of fact, "It is safe to assume the incontinence was voluntary on his part."

She's glad she didn't waste time coming up with her next several questions, because _that_ answer takes her in an entirely different direction. "How on earth could that be _voluntary_?" And once again, she doesn't distrust him, but simply cannot understand. That makes him more willing to explain.

"There are Charms. To empty bladder and bowels. There can be no question that he knows them."

"That's surely the height of laziness..."

"If it isn't performed on someone confined to a sickbed. Or on oneself, perhaps when faced with imminent loss of control over bodily functions due to torture." She pales noticeably as he says this so candidly. "Draco's all too familiar with the Cruciatus and its effects. And there's no chance his father won't have taught him the Charms."

"What makes you so sure he even knows them?"

"Lucius is the one who taught me." She tries to absorb that, deciding she can't begin to picture their relationship, but knows it must be closer than she thought for him to be Draco's godfather. They hardly move in the same social circles, after all. 

Other than the Death Eaters, she amends that thought quickly...

"Then why wouldn't he... Why _would_ he..." 

She has grown up protected. The things she reads in the paper are foreign to her, and she really hasn't asked many of the relevant questions when reading. Even on the rare occasion war has struck closer to home, she hasn't come away with much of an understanding of the _realities_ of it. It had been sufficient to know she should send her parents into hiding to ensure their safety, but she hadn't a realistic picture of what would have happened had she _not_. It's probably better that way, particularly in their case. She has enough trouble sleeping at night.  
  


He'd wager, and win, that when Miss Abbott's mother was murdered by the Death Eaters last year, something no one in the school could have missed, that Hermione and her friends never knew, or bothered to learn, the details. A sense of propriety might have kept them from asking, fair enough, but to not learn that her only 'offence' had been 'blood traitordom'? To have no idea that _marrying a Muggle_ was deemed a suitably heinous crime such as to carry a _death sentence_ was to deprive themselves of any real recognition of how far things had progressed. 

"Why does the losing wolf expose his throat to the victor?" He asks. Her eyes widen as she's confronted with concepts she's never remotely considered before. "Humans are different, naturally, but it's just another form of surrender. And we required it. Without his surrender, without his apology, we would be faced with this or a similar situation again sometime very soon. You may rely upon it. 

"Additionally, from his standpoint, with some luck, if an assailant can be made to believe they have caused a significant degree of _humiliation_ , sometimes that is sufficient to persuade them that they have no more need to inflict _pain_. It may not _feel_ that way, but I guarantee you no one has ever died of humiliation who has decided _not_ to do so. The same can't be said for the varied causes of pain." 

He waits for a moment, allowing those words to sink in, willing her to remember them. She doesn't understand, yet, that their truth applies to her as well. Maybe some day she might. Hopefully she won't _need_ to. 

"It has other advantages, as tactics go, especially because _ultimately_ no one but the person... _affected_ has the power to decide what is humiliating." He looks at her meaningfully, holding her gaze for a long time, and she realises this isn't just about Draco anymore. It's about her, too. 

"You know what he said at dinner." It's not a question, but when she pauses, he nods all the same. "I don't know why it bothers me so much that he saw me that way." She's completely serious, as absurd as it seems. She really can't make sense of her reaction. 

He could provide her with a list of factors and reasons. A much too lengthy synopsis of her position and its potential ramifications. He has enough experience. He's been a Head of House for more than sixteen years now; she's not the first young woman he's consoled. He has a wealth of more personal experiences, far more relevant, that he could draw on to help explain her feelings to her. Worse, the damn bond lets him know _exactly_ what she feels about this. 

He's intrigued to discover that she's utterly sincere in her confusion, and he could far more easily pick apart her knot of feelings at this moment than she herself can. He decides detachment makes all the difference. He underestimates the difference experience accounts for.

Once she realises how much she's unwittingly sharing across their bond, she'll doubtlessly feel even more embarrassed, and he resolves to Occlude more to hide that knowledge from her until she is less vulnerable or the... incident less significant. If he survives the night, that is. 

And all of this and more goes through his mind as he considers his reply, until it grinds to an abrupt halt as she blithely begins discussing... _bathing attire_. 

"I mean, I wear _far less_ to the beach..."  
  


It's almost ludicrous. She's completely unfazed by the topic, even after her assault. She finds nothing _remotely_ embarrassing about Muggle swimware. Why would she? But _he_ is utterly nonplussed by the notion of her sat before him in a bikini, the image both involuntary and instantaneous. It's _far_ too close for his comfort to the 1950's bondage pinup image Draco had inadvertently recreated with her last Friday. 

He swallows and Occludes until the moment passes. With luck, she never registered it. Not for the first time he wishes there were a mental Scourgify shy of an Obliviate. It's not even the first time he's had call for such a spell with regards to the woman seated across from him. Within _days_...  
  


Back to the matter at hand, he decides there is no benefit to explaining her feelings to her. She'll work through them when she's ready. Any attempt to expound on them would only highlight how much the bond reveals, and he _had_ just determined it would be... compassionate to keep it from her. He can't imagine she'll appreciate it if _he_ makes it clear just how exposed she is emotionally right now. And should that comprehension give rise to any animosity, he's likely to be the unlucky recipient thereof. He settles for a more circumspect, if obvious, "There's a great difference between what you _choose_ to do, and what someone else _forces_ you to do." 

But despite the patent obviousness of the statement, she feels... understood and comforted. Which is how Severus comes to learn another truth of their bond. It's... _motivating_. 

He had had hints of it. He knew he was more... forthcoming when he could feel her approval, her trust. The lack of oh so anticipated rejection. But her appreciation flares strong across their bond, and he finds it has a certain... appeal. That he would be willing to do things he doesn't otherwise to feel it again. 

He knows, with certainty, that there is no conceivable way anyone could have expressed those feelings to him that would have him believing them with the same conviction the bond provides. And that without that conviction, he would never exhibit the same willingness to be more patient, considerate, and sometimes, once in a while, he's almost... polite. She's getting a better version of him than he otherwise trusts enough to provide. He knows this will modify his behaviour, and yet he discovers he's conflicted as to whether this is a bad thing. That _in itself_ is ample proof of its behaviour modifying properties.  
  


"It bears repeating, Miss Granger, _you_ have nothing to be ashamed about from the other night. You'll recover faster when you come to believe that. As I've said, if I could have, I would have taken that memory from him as well. I will need to explain that incident and our... bonding to the Dark Lord and his circle tonight." 

Her immediate burst of anxiety at hearing about them almost makes him snort. All _she_ needs to do is _think_ about it; _he'll_ be standing in their midst in under an hour... That is until he realises she's concerned for _him_. He's a bit touched by that, and sorry to have done her that slight injustice. Not that anyone could tell by looking at him. "Draco will need that memory to corroborate my story."

"I'm glad, very, _very_ glad, you took the ones you did. And those from all of the others. When I think how just that offhand comment made me feel..." he flinches inwardly, because he _knows_ that was the source of hurt before, the memories he left and wishes he hadn't had to. "If he remembered the effects of the potion... Or if the rest of them had been there, too, leering over his shoulder... 

"Sir, I _really_ can't thank you enough. It doesn't matter if you had to leave some memories. Not at _all_." He can feel how eager she is to reassure him, and that she _really_ means this. He feels forgiven, _absolved_ , and then wonders how exactly he came to feel so guilty in the first place. He doesn't have a good answer, he just knows that he does. "Obviously the reasons for leaving it far outweigh my little bout of nerves. And I _will_ get over it. It'll just take me a bit of time." 

"May I make a few suggestions to that end for the days to come?"

"Please do," she replies sincerely, having learnt a valuable lesson from dinner this evening. She desperately needs help navigating her plight, and she's inclined to think he's her best bet to receive it. 

"I think your having taken the potion for dinner was a great success, and suspect it would be wise to continue that approach until interest dies down somewhat and you are... more comfortable with our predicament."

"How long would I need to take it for?" It _had_ worked extremely well, but she's a little nervous at the thought of essentially being... drugged all the time. 

"Are you asking me how long they'll be _interested_ , or how long _you'll_ require to become more comfortable? Because I'm sure I couldn't say..." He smirks. She wrinkles her nose in mock irritation at his teasing, probably because the bond let's her know it's only that. It's unusual enough as a response, however, that it amuses him more. He stifles a chuckle. "I'm confident your lack of response to any... antagonism is quite likely to accelerate that process. 

"In all seriousness, my suggestion would be _not_ to take it continually, but to stick with the Draught of Peace initially only during the times you are outside of chambers, for classes, meals and stays in the library, say. It has the advantage of being both much stronger and more precise in its dosage, and then supplementing that with Calming Draught as needed," he removes quite a number of phials from his pocket and places them on the side table next to him as he speaks. 

He holds one up to her, "This is a four hour dose, which would see you through breakfast and your morning classes, or lunch and your afternoon schedule." He picks up another, smaller phial, "This is the dose you had today, good for an hour, suitable for dinner. I would, however, also recommend accompanying it with the use of a Tempus," he drawls. She blushes accordingly, and he magnanimously refrains from smirking again. 

The number of phials lying there would seem to easily represent a week's supply, which makes her nervous for entirely different reasons. Why does he need to give her so much _now_? She doesn't ask. 

"You are not able to Occlude, and given that, this should provide you with a... workable solution. But if you are... able, I would also recommend not taking it while in our quarters."

"Is it harmful? Or addictive? Like Dreamless Sleep?" 

"No, Miss Granger. Allow me to reassure you, it's perfectly harmless. But it _is_ advisable _to face_ your problems as best you can. 

"Try picturing it like this, if you would: you are _safe_ , _absolutely_ safe within these walls. No harm will come to you. I would encourage you to confront any issues, to the extent you are able, _here_. But there's no shame in needing, or simply wanting a Calming Draught, should it come to that. If you need more, please don't hesitate to ask myself or Madam Pomfrey. I promise you, you _will not_ be judged for it."

There's something... kind in the way he says it that leaves her a little confused. She tries not to read anything in to it, and isn't even entirely sure she hasn't imagined it. Still, what he says makes sense. "Alright. That sounds agreeable. I'm happy to give that a try. Thank you. Any other suggestions?"

"From experience, I imagine the mail we shall receive in the days to come will prove... undesirable. That's putting it mildly. I believe you've had similar experiences during the Tri-Wiz?" 

"Gods. Howlers..." Her eyes go comically wide, and her hand claps instinctively to her mouth, almost as if holding back the word could somehow prevent it from happening. Would that were so.

"Just the tip of the tip, I'm afraid. I expect a mound of rubbish the like of which neither of us have seen before once word spreads." She pales at the thought. "Quite. If you're amenable, I would recommend having your mail screened for the foreseeable future."

"Screened?" She sounds instantly uncomfortable. Just add water and stir. He's not sure if it's at the idea of subjecting someone else to such garbage - agreed, it's hardly pleasant - or having another person pry through her personal affairs. He _is_ at a bit of a loss how _that_ could still be construed as 'invasive' contrasted with the damnable bond that betrays their every feeling... Ta. But he's accepted that he doesn't always understand her point of view. _That_ hasn't taken long at all. _Some_ people fail to learn that lesson about their spouses in a lifetime. 

"Forgive an indelicate question, but how many people do you regularly owl at present?" He believes, correctly, with her parents effectively erased from her life that there won't be many people left outside Hogwarts who matter to her. Judging by what he recalls from breakfasts of the past weeks, there hasn't been contact, regular or otherwise, with _anyone_. But he might have missed something - he hadn't deliberately kept an eye out. And that assumes they use typical owls, like the Hogwarts tawny owls, nocturnal messengers who tend to arrive with breakfast. 

It's surprising how many people never realise that no matter _when_ they dispatch an owl, and they're always in such a frightful rush to do so, the birds are likely to seek out the nearest tree and kip until sunset. And _then_ the bloody creatures spend most of the night hunting, if they can get away with it. But there's little point in arriving in the dead of night. Fewer owl treats to be gleaned when you wake the recipients. No, the animals are far from foolish. 

Still, it has advantages, such as on days like today. 

It's a blessing the students don't have access to the Floo. Merlin help them if the wizarding world ever develops a Charm equivalent to the mobile telephone. Then it really _will_ be time to pack it in. 

She pinks a bit as she admits, "No one." He fails, utterly, to find lack of contact _remotely_ embarrassing. On the contrary, it sounds... _ideal_. He practically aspires to it. 

"Then it shouldn't be so bad. May I suggest someone you trust and wouldn't be embarrassed to have reading the few pieces that _are_ legitimate. Perhaps Professor McGonagall? I am certain she would agree if we asked her." If in the process of doing so Minerva were to become sensitised to the abuse Miss Granger receives, that could only be to their advantage. Anytime _he_ complains, he is considered an alarmist. _Exaggerating_. Better to have it come from _her_. The curious thing is Minerva's threshold for abuse lies _far_ lower than his. He's not he least bit sure how the misperception that it were otherwise ever occurred. 

When Miss Granger agrees, it was practically a foregone conclusion, he summons a bit of parchment, ink and his quill and jots a quick note to Albus to make the arrangements while the Squid sweeps past again. The cat, he notes, doesn't stare at the windows as the little witch does. Possibly he's grown used to the Squid, having spent more time in chambers. Or maybe he's harder to impress. Severus may just be coming to understand the feline mentality after all.  
  


He folds the note, adding it to the one already in his pocket. "I hope these precautions should see you through the next several days," he tells her as he stoppers the ink bottle. 

"I think you're right, the Draught should be a big help once Malfoy returns to classes. If he keeps his mouth shut, that is..." She still looks slightly nervous at the thought, but then again, she hasn't currently taken either of the Draughts. 

"I don't imagine after tonight he'll say much more about it." Severus reassures her. 

"Not if he's smart." Her grin has something a little bit harsh about it that he completely approves of. He also thinks it's progress, an indication that she's come to accept, at least in part, what he did before.

"Unfortunately, I find that to be a variable state in Draco's day to day existence. You may not have had call to notice, but the boy is undeniably gifted. On rare occasion, that's actually apparent. Increasingly rarely, though. He almost equally probably presents as dumb as the proverbial pet rock. It's confounding." They share a faint smile as he stands. It's... nice. A small bit of comfort as he stops avoiding the inevitable and summons his cloak. There's no more putting off what must be done.  
  


She's silent as she watches him. What would she say anyway? _Try not to die_? This is too different to the things she knows. She's grappling with the reality of his life, struggling to grasp it. She's not having much success. 

One moment he sits there chatting politely, which was plenty odd enough given who he is, much like anyone else of an evening. And the next he's calmly preparing himself to return to a group of people who nearly killed him just days ago, only too aware they may do so again tonight. Or worse. The certainty remains that he won't walk away unscathed, and she can't begin to imagine the wherewithal required to... 

She finds this truly _terrifying_. 

She does a surprisingly decent job of concealing that outwardly as she trails him to the door. For an emotional Gryffindor, thoroughly unschooled in all matters of composure, that is. But the bond more than reveals what she's feeling. It's hardly a _comfort_ , per se, in fact he has to Occlude even more so that it doesn't inadvertently begin making him nervous, but he decides it's... good to know someone cares, at least a little. Perhaps their talk was successful in that regard.

He wishes her a rather formal, "Good evening, Miss Granger," lifts his wand and strengthens the wards on their quarters. 

Her answering "Good luck, Sir," slightly watery now that he can no longer see her, only just reaches him before the door closes behind him, warded against anything the future might bring.  
  


' _Good luck_ '? He'll certainly need it.

He summons Sunny and gives the elf the parchments for Minerva and Albus and the Anti-spasmodic Potion to bring to Theo. If they're his last deeds, at least they're a kindness. The elf disappears with a quiet 'pop', and Severus makes his dreary way through the castle alone. 

As he trudges through the snow towards the gates, he can't help thinking about her. It makes perfect sense, given she's the reason he might be killed tonight. 

" _Was it necessary to be so harsh_?" He repeats and scoffs. He wonders for a moment if she is _that_ soft, or that _kindhearted_. That _she_ should consider Draco deserving of _less_ than he received is beyond his comprehension after the past couple of days, although he'd admittedly been relieved to be able to stop Crucioing the boy. Either way, she's going to get eaten alive. And he's been tied to her. 

He can't imagine this ends well.  
  


Fortunately for all parties concerned, for once his imagination isn't _quite_ adequate to the task. 

  



	56. 11 10s Monday - Reactions Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just Another Evening in the Castle
> 
> _Severus, Ginny, Harry, Ron, Fay, Seamus, Dean, Neville, assorted Gryffindors, Hermione, Crooks_

It went disastrously. 

That was hardly surprising. Far more surprising is the fact he's made it back to the castle, not quite dead yet. _Yet again_. He's making a habit of it. How marvellous. He pitches forward, landing in a heap as he reappears, his strength sufficient for the Apparition and nothing more. 

He hasn't even made it to the safety of the gates.

* * *

  


Ginny returned to the Tower, sadly without any food in hand. Predictably, it didn't help matters go any more smoothly with Ron, as nothing she said would convince him it hadn't been a deliberate choice on her part. That she _might_ have had other things on her mind after that announcement doesn't strike him as overly reasonable. It's possible, however, that _he never_ forgets food, regardless how dire the situation. Or maybe he was just being unfair. It's not unheard of.

Harry was terribly eager to know what had been said and how everyone received the news. Ron had no desire to hear it whatsoever. Wild Thestrals... It was extremely shortsighted, as he would be facing their reactions soon enough. Tomorrow at the very latest. Within minutes, likely enough. Gryffindors aren't exactly known for their reserve. 

Harry persisted, Ron was free to leave if he really didn't want to hear it or stick his head deep in the couch cushions for all Harry cared, and so Ginny was forced to admit she had missed the announcement as such. Harry, understandably, was exceedingly annoyed. He hadn't asked for much, but _that_ had been very important to him. They rowed. Ginny accused him of holding her up with his squabbling earlier; it only made Harry angrier, and he was frankly disgusted at the assertion. He happened to recall the exchange quite differently. 

And then it dawned on him, given no one _else_ had returned, that Ginny must have left Hermione _alone_ in the Great Hall to come back to talk to them. Or argue, more like. Worse, Hermione _wasn't_ alone, but with everyone imaginable _but_ her friends. Hermione might have found that _preferable_ , the way things had been going, but he wasn't thinking along those lines. If he had been angry before, he was bordering on furious now. _How could Ginny think that was a good idea?_ It went downhill from there. 

"Well, I wanted to check on Ron, didn't I?"

"Sure, because you're such a _comfort_ ," he snapped sarcastically, remembering the state Ron had been in when she left earlier. Only extensive visualisation exercises, courtesy of Professor Taylor's DADA class, unusually enough, of what Ginny might bring him to eat had eventually been able to calm him. Well, a little. _Still_...

Ron's disappointment when she failed to do so was all the greater.

Harry may have been correct, she _hadn't_ helped the situation any, but it probably wasn't the smartest move to say so, and Ginny _wasn't_ impressed with his tone. It's a bit of an ongoing thing of late. " _I_ was here with him," he practically snarled, his face going red as it tends to when he's angry. "You weren't _needed_."

"Sure," she threw back, every bit as angry and her fear of not being needed a _very_ sore point, "'because _you're_ such a comfort.'" That made him madder, particularly as there was some truth to her words, or _his_ words, case in point. 

"So you left her there with _no support_?" 

" _You_ left her there with no support. You _knew_ what was coming and didn't say a _word_!" 

He gave up, convinced she would never understand the constraints of the Oath. It would have _helped_ were he able to explain them. Hell, it would have helped if she had an _inkling_ there was an Oath in play. One _might_ hope that would teach him something important, but that way lies disappointment for the foreseeable future. He turned to stalk off, disgusted. "Fine, _you_ want to take care of him, he's all yours."

"I still need to..." But it was too late, Harry was gone. 

Ron had remained slouched apathetically on the couch. He hadn't spoken up again once it became clear Ginny wasn't going to tell them about the announcement. Or couldn't, more like. She approached her brother with much more patience than she'd had for Harry and told him they still needed to owl their mum. It's a little hazy _why_ she felt this was such a matter of urgency, but she certainly didn't want to be the one who _hadn't_ let their mum know at the first opportunity. There _is_ something to be said for her logic.

"Do you want to do it, Ron, or should I?" Ron just shrugged. The Oath wouldn't permit him to do it until morning, but he couldn't explain that to his sister and honestly didn't want to talk about it anymore anyway. "Alright, I can do it. Can I borrow Pig?" Ron just shrugged again, which Ginny took for agreement. It simplified things. 

"Right. I'm borrowing Pig, yeah? I'll be back in a bit," she prepared to leave, but Ron still hadn't moved. "Are you going to be alright here on your own? Ron?"

That only got her another shrug. She hesitated a little longer, and finally Ron answered, "Sure, go ahead." It was all she needed to hear. With that, Ginny vanished through the portrait hole to make her way to the owlery. She wanted to be sure to bring Pig back to the Tower before curfew, so she could send him off whenever she was done writing their mum. 

It wasn't a bad plan. 

Leaving Ron in the common room, however, was a _really_ bad idea. Perfectly _dreadful_.  
  


It wasn't long before the others began to trickle back in. The topic of choice, naturally, was Hermione's marriage, 'bond', 'whatever, Neville', to _Snape_. It wasn't that there was much to concretely be said about it, but that just left a vacuum for rumours to fill. 

And they did. 

Thoroughly miserable, Ron tried to flee. 

Unfortunately, escaping to his room proved a not much better solution as Seamus' was one of the loudest, albeit extremely repetitive, voices of incredulity, and he followed the ginger straight to their dorm room, repeating "She married the _dungeon bat_ ", or variants thereof, over and over until Ron leapt into action and force fed him a Puking Pastille. While hardly sporting, it _did_ shut Seamus up. Dean came to his defence, Neville hurriedly Summoned his books and left to go to the library, his intelligence is generally underestimated, and some pretty serious hexing ensued. 

Projectile vomiting, profusely, it transpires, limits ones magic to the non-verbal sort, but also makes it rather difficult to focus sufficiently to perform with any accuracy. 

Well then. 

Seamus' Silencio, something he'd learned to cast in fifth year, although admittedly not silently, went _horribly_ wrong, and Ron's head swelled up larger than it had seemed after he first enjoyed a few Quidditch successes last year. For those who may have forgotten, that's _huge_. Not that most of his family members or even his best friend hadn't also had their share of victories, easily as noteworthy, but Ron always responded a mite differently. His retaliatory Furnunculus Maximus, deafening thanks to Seamus' miscast, covered Dean from head to toe in boils, Merlin, his boils had boils, and ensured Ron, Dean and Seamus _all_ ended up in the Infirmary in short order.  
  


Harry had pulled the curtains to on his bed and Imperturbed them, and missed the whole wretched affair. His intelligence is also sometimes underestimated, although his actions tonight were probably driven primarily by annoyance and not intellect. Of course, that's often the case. They could all bloody well rot for all he cared. He'd had enough for today. As strategies go, it wasn't a bad one. Ron could have learned a thing or two from him.  
  


The discussions and speculation were in full swing when Ginny returned to the common room. There was no sign of Harry, and her Housemates only too cheerily reported that Ron had gone to the Infirmary. His head was so swollen, they'd had trouble squeezing him through the portrait hole. But nothing to worry about. Madam Pomfrey would have him sorted in two flicks. 

Well, maybe more... 

Frankly, there's probably _no_ sorting the boy, but the Mediwitch will doubtlessly have his head and voice back to normal soon enough.  
  


Ginny could have told Harry and Ron how everyone went a bit mad at the news at dinner and was silenced, but she took it for a given. The madness, that is. The mass silencing was new. But as a pure-blood witch, she was used to new magic. So to speak. As she saw it, there really hadn't been much to tell, and she was still stewing over Harry's reaction. 

Now Lavender, on the other hand, had had some interesting things to say about Hermione going missing Friday night. Far in advance of the news of the bonding even. In light of that, however, theories ran riot as to what Hermione could have been doing that night. Hmm, indeed.

When Fay had returned to the common room, she expanded quite... explicitly on Lav's theory that Hermione had been with... _someone_. Georgina objected, she's kinder that way, but she's also deemed a tad... simple. No one paid her much mind. Ever. Considering that Hermione and the Professor were _bonded_ , Fay argued, almost sensibly, it seemed not altogether far-fetched they were caught in flagranti and presumably _forced_ into it. _At wandpoint_. It's unclear by _whom_ , naturally, Muggle parents not much given to such actions (and certainly not when said parents were apparently in hiding, not that it was known), but the responsible party was of secondary concern. It's not like anyone would bond _voluntarily_. 

That they happen to be living with two individuals who had apparently done just _that_ slipped their minds. Collectively. _Completely_. As Gryffindors, that's been known to happen; they're _also_ not known for their mental acuity. Fittingly, they didn't think to ask either of the other recently bonded what led to this rather extreme course of action on their parts. Dhanesh and Kiera could both have explained someone was attacked in the school. Then even _Gryffindors_ should have been able to connect the dots given Hermione's stay in the Infirmary. 

Regrettably, Madam and Mister Devi were themselves both still in the Infirmary, and Hafsa was... assisting Filch in his endeavours. Out of sight, out of mind.  
  


Most present in the Tower feel the issue there is bonding the _greasy git_ and not _bonding_ per se. Some... discussion followed as to what it entailed. 'Permanence' as a property was sufficient to make bonding seem stupid, er, _ill advised_ enough. Anything else probably depended on their Vows, and it's not like any of them were privy to the ceremony. More grumbling over the lack of invitations took place. That widespread defamation of the participants' characters and near universal antipathy towards the groom might preclude wedding invitations under the _best_ of circumstances occurs to no one. Gryffindors are _not_ known for their self-reflection. 

One particularly malignant theory supposed Hermione had... and here voices grew hushed... been up the duff. Joined the pudding club, as it were. One silly Firstie, a chubby lad, thought that might have something to do with afters, or hoped, more like; it was clear where his preferences lay. He was promptly declared 'too young' for the discussion and sent from the room. The Mobilicorpus is a useful thing to know. It certainly helps manage refractory underclassmen. 

From there it was an even split whether Hermione had been getting 'cleaned oot' at McGonagall's insistence - if one is going to spin a yarn, why not go whole hog - or lost 'the wee bairn', if she _really_ spent the weekend in the Infirmary instead of Snape's bed. 

Much shuddering ensued. Predominantly for the wrong reasons. 

As that theory seemed more robust than any other explanation, and even Harry had said he visited her in the Infirmary, and there'd been no real trace of that weird library tale in evidence... Well, the fabrication sticks in some minds rather insidiously. Even after the Devis later provide more information, some won't be able to entirely shake their belief in the communally crafted fiction.

The especially sad thing about it is other Houses may speculate that there had been a relationship between Granger and Snape. It's fair enough, given their bonding, as to be more _reasonable_ than _malicious_. Truthfully. Minds seek explanations. But as the only ones particularly aware she'd spent the last couple of days in the Infirmary, Hermione's _own Housemates_ are the ones who come up with the more elaborate and darker theories. And as her failure to be visibly pregnant in the months to come fits _perfectly_ with the story spun, how convenient, there is essentially no proof to the contrary after the fact. The canard tenaciously survives. 

Luckily, Hermione soon won't have to put up with too much of their guff, and it only serves to make her new living arrangements a _great deal_ more appealing. She'll settle in quite nicely in fact. Severus for his part by and large couldn't care less _what_ they say. _Gossip_ is the least of his problems. And completely unexpectedly, he'll find himself drawing comfort from... hers.  
  


Lamentably, and she _will_ have occasion to lament this fact, Ginny still knew nothing whatsoever about an attack Friday night, and in the absence of information, she made the mistake of including some of the speculation from her Housemates in her letter home. It _really_ wasn't one of her better decisions. When the boys are able to speak more freely tomorrow, not that they'll disclose all, of course not, because they had _nothing_ to do with _any_ of it after all, and Ginny realises Hermione had been targeted, _injured_ even, she will realise her mistake. Timing, unluckily, is sometimes _everything_. 

Surprisingly, Ginny will have a clearer understanding of the situation than the boys do, as she won't be wrestling with denial. It won't help things much, though, as her fury with them for not _stopping_ her, not that either of them had known precisely what she was going to do, won't be conducive to reflection on any of their parts. And none of them will learn the lesson about the problems Oaths can cause. Not at _that_ time.  
  


But rest assured, when her mother discovers Ginny's error, she'll make her displeasure known. Loudly.

* * *

  


Hermione was scared spitless. 

That's the state where one keeps ones head when faced with adversity, not 'witless' by any means, but ones mouth goes dry in an involuntary physiological response to the fear and stress. Quite. She can explain it in detail, but oddly no one ever seems interested. She tends to find that disappointing. 

Many things are.  
  


It doesn't help, of course, that most of the people she speaks to these days have virtually no understanding of biology. She hasn't quite come to terms with that yet, that fairly common Muggle knowledge isn't necessarily widespread in the wizarding world or even particularly valued. She probably _won't_ come to terms with it either for a long time to come.  
  


Determined to make the best of the evening, and to keep her mind resolutely off the Professor and what might be happening to him, _anything_ but that, she decided she had two goals. The first was to solve the problem of dissuading Crooks' from taking up his constant watch over the room from the Professor's chair. _Anywhere_ else would do, she really wasn't picky by this point. 

The second was the issue of collecting Crooks' fur for... Mrs. Figg apparently. Hermione would soon realise she hasn't a prayer of accomplishing the second goal tonight; she couldn't focus enough to read the unfamiliar texts. Uncharacteristically, she let go of it and simply gave up for the time being. There's always tomorrow.

That she was willing to declare _those_ her goals for the evening is even _more_ uncharacteristic of her, with all the things she still has to learn and only a paltry seven months left until N.E.W.T.s, but her experience last Friday is affecting her a great deal more than she's currently noticing. 

When considered superficially, that might seem frightening at first, and when she notices it, she _will_ have moments where she worries about just that. But there's also something to be said for gaining perspective and leading a more balanced life. Honestly, Hermione tends to be rather... obsessive, that's phrasing it mildly, and has an all too limited range of interests. She'll overcompensate some initially, it's unavoidable, and it will take a while to find to herself again - well, her _new_ self - but _when_ she does, she'll be happier than she's been in a very long time. 

Really. 

But that's for _later_. 

_Tonight_ was a different affair altogether. And it was more than a little nerve wracking. 

It wouldn't be long before she would also come to realise she hadn't a hope in hell of keeping her mind off the Professor's harrowing straits.  
  


The first order of business was scolding Crooks. She generally prefers to see it as 'negotiating', but several fundamental attributes thereof are lacking for the term to be correct. _Whatever_ it's called, it wasn't crowned with much success. Gary Larson summed it up in a 'Far Side' cartoon rather nicely many years before: the difference between what cats and dogs hear was basically the difference between 'blah blah' and 'blah blah, Ginger'. Half-Kneazles are no different. 

Fine, alright, Crooks recognises his name; that doesn't make him a dog. 

But he was no more impressed with Hermione than Ginny had been with Harry. He _might_ have been less disdainful. But only just.  
  


It isn't until Hermione tackles her second avenue of attack that she begins to discover _why_. A little frustrated with her lack of success, it didn't help that the situation with the Professor was rubbing her nerves raw, she grabbed Crooks and just tried to drop him into her chair. 

It had seemed simple enough. 

It wasn't. 

Crooks _hissed_ and sort of _shrieked_ and extended what suddenly appeared to be far too many limbs in all directions at once and absolutely _refused_ to be placed on the chair. Huh. It was definitely an _extreme_ response. 

It was, in fact, extreme enough, that Hermione gave it some thought. 

_Finally_. 

Crooks really does love the little witch to bits, but _goodness_ is she slow. She's just lucky she's so kind and soft and smells nice and seems to have an endless supply of toys and Kneazle treats - not that Crooks' affections can be bought, not at all, well, except maybe with kippers - because she really _is_ dense as rocks. She's also lucky she has him to look after her, because he isn't sure how she's managed to survive this long on her own. It certainly doesn't speak for their species, because _she's_ considered one of their brighter representatives. 

Crooks would have great difficulty pointing out specifically where his looking after _her_ was rewarded with any more success than Hermione's attempts to negotiate with _him_. That's not just because he hasn't any fingers to do the pointing. But in typical Crooks fashion, that doesn't begin to diminish his unwavering faith in his world view. Crooks is a great many things. What he isn't is _unsure_.  
  


Figuring that there must be some reason for the hefty reaction, Hermione set about examining the chairs more closely. Calculating that it should be less objectionable if she were to sit in the Professor's chair than Crooks' doing so, and banking heavily that the Potions Master would never know either way, Hermione took a seat and tried to analyse the differences. Surprisingly, there were several. She returned to her chair and looked at it more closely and could see signs of wear. It made sense, inasmuch as it had been the only chair in the lounge when she first entered their quarters... last night. Goodness, it really hadn't been long. 

It followed, that if the Professor preferred using an armchair instead of the sofa, and an examination of the leather on the seating reveals that to be the case, that she had seized not only his desk chair when she moved in yesterday, but also co-opted his favourite reading chair. Rats. In fact, the wear patterns indicated he must have used the chair in the lounge she now called 'hers' almost exclusively. Rats again. 

Further examination revealed that the chair is _not_ the same as the one she had taken for its match standing across from it. The back had been altered at some point. Some Charm makes the one she was using deeper than it appears, which makes perfect sense in view of his exceedingly long legs. The lumbar support is also different. She crossed back and forth between the chairs a number of times, poked and proded and otherwise crawled all over the furniture, emboldened no doubt by the sure knowledge the Professor wouldn't walk in on her doing so, and then immediately trying to forget _why_ that was, and finally came to the realisation that he had apparently customised the chair quite a bit. 

Which, now that she considered it, explained why he seemed so uncomfortable in the chair he was currently left using. Rats yet again.

What it didn't explain was why he hadn't continued to use his chair then. 

More traversing the lounge followed, and eventually she realised that from his old chair, in its present position, he could watch the room. But quite evidently he hadn't felt comfortable with the idea of her room directly at his back. Marvellous. He'd preferred to sacrifice his chair for a position where he could keep a better eye on her. Which probably also explained the mirror he'd felt the need to add to the room, the one that now adorned her door. So he could keep an eye out if she's moving about in the room behind him. Splendid.  
  


Well, she was feeling _incredibly_ guilty now. 

Truthfully, she was feeling incredibly guilty _anyway_ because he'd gone to report their bonding to You-Know-Who and associates, but she was still fiercely pretending that wasn't the case. The chair problem was _incredibly_ important, after all. Because he was going to return _any minute now_ and be perfectly fine, and _nothing_ would be more important than her having solved the Crooks-chair conundrum... 

She'd almost succeeded in convincing herself, distracting herself, and now there she was, feeling guilty all over again. Rats and rats again...  
  


He could have switched the chairs. 

Why hadn't he? 

She suspected it was sort of like why she hadn't repaired the bra she had been wearing Friday. She could have. But she didn't. She couldn't afford a new one right now, and in some stubborn act of, well it was defiance, but it's thoroughly unclear who she thought she was defying. Maybe she was just railing against the situation. Probably that. 

Poverty sucks. 

But she'd been utterly stubborn, far too stubborn to repair the bra and it hadn't mattered at all until it _had_ , and _then_ she'd have been far more interested in freeing herself from the ropes and Professor McGonagall's chair and getting out of that _fucking_ room than in repairing her _godsdamned_ bra. Had she been able that is.  
  


Right.

She imagines it must be something kind of like that. Just without the women's undergarments. Or colourful language.  
  


In fact, with all the shifting and fidgeting about he'd done, she expected it was only a matter of time until he gave up and switched the chairs. Unless he's just _that_ stubborn. Which he might be. But she could maybe make his life a little easier and just do it _for_ him. 

Sometimes it helps when someone takes things off your hands. 

A Wingardium Leviosa or two later, and she'd done just that. Swapped the wing chairs. Now he can keep an eye on her door, sit comfortably in a chair he apparently likes, and still see the room behind him in the mirror. She made a mental note to shut her door when she's in the main room so he can use the mirror as he seems to have intended. She naturally has no way of knowing that he has a spell that adjusts reflections for the viewer, but it's a considerate thought that he'll appreciate once he finally figures out what she's doing. 

In a final acid test, she picked up Crooks once again and dropped him on the chair currently in 'her' spot. He had no problems _whatsoever_ anymore taking that seat, but still threw her a long suffering look. _Felines_. She thought it was for the rough handling; he would laugh at that, quite a bit, if he knew those were her thoughts and if half-Kneazles actually _could_ laugh, of course. _Obviously_ it was because it took her this long. _Humans_.  
  


In a couple of days Hermione will try to explain to the Professor why Crooks apparently preferred 'his' chair. Her theory is the half-Kneazle hadn't wished to sit in a chair so thoroughly magicked and customised and... well, _truly his_. Severus will revise his opinion from a feline 'fuck you' to 'fear', and be marginally cheered. He really is a difficult man to help. But if thinking that makes him any happier, both witch and half-Kneazle wouldn't take much issue with it. 

Crooks, naturally, will consider it a simple question of _common courtesy_ , unmannered nit, and _he claims_ to know better, and bestow another of his patented long suffering looks upon their wizard. 

Those looks are far more versatile than one might think. Especially when dealing regularly with _humans_.  
  


It's a lucky thing that Hermione had that bit of success, inconsequential though it was. It gave her a sense of achievement, left her feeling good for a few moments, before the Professor apparently stopped Occluding as strongly and everything, _everything_ fell apart.  
  


Holy Cricket.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have LadyCindy to thank for this chapter being posted now. :-)


	57. 11 10t Monday - Reactions Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just Another Night at the Manor
> 
> _Severus, Lucius, Narcissa, Bellatrix, Voldemort, Avery, Crabbe Sr., Goyle Sr., Norman Nott, assorted Death Eaters, Hermione, Sunny_

_It went disastrously._

_He pitches forward, landing in a heap as he reappears, his strength sufficient for the Apparition and nothing more._

_He hasn't even made it to the safety of the gates._

* * *

  


The conditions at the Manor were... Well, he supposed they were better than Azkaban, but it's conceivable that should read 'only just' now that the Dementors were gone. It was undoubtedly to be expected, the number of escaped convicts that have been housed there, hiding, confined with little enough occasion to be out and about... He'd had a taste of their... pleasure at the chance to spread the misery more... equitably this past Friday. Those who _weren't_ so constrained to the Manor suffered there, greatly, at the hands of those who _were_. 

He hoped Yaxley was a frequent visitor. Fervently. And Greyback, too... 

As he considered it, the list only grew longer. 

The inhabitants were bored, many homicidal, it was a draw which was worse, with little to occupy their hands or minds, discounting the Malfoys' excellent library, which few seemed inclined to use. 

He had _no words_. 

They were ignorant reprobates; he had no idea why he thought it should be any different.  
  


His visit began poorly. It got worse. 

There had been an incident. There were long term ramifications. He reported the boys' misconduct from Friday; he wasn't there to stop them after all... The reproach was implied, and yet somehow no one seemed to feel personally... addressed. How... _unusual_. But then these were hardly the champions of personal accountability. 

Never fear, he assured them, he had since punished Draco accordingly. But no one had been worried in the least about _that_. It was a certainty. 

He could hear the Malfoys twitching uneasily behind him. Narcissa may have moaned. 

He had managed to intervene Friday in time to keep the lot from being sent down, but not before such damage had been done that Dumbledore demanded... tribute. 

He explained the bondings at the school. 

His in particular. 

Several winced at the thought. No one laughed. Yet. The memory of Willem Wilkes and his attempt to bond one of the Rosiers was fresh enough for all present. No one there considered bonds laughing matters. Not after that. 

The fathers present, and Goyle Sr. was summarily summoned to make it four, were initially unwilling to let his claims stand unchallenged. Whatever else, they knew enough and were sufficiently experienced that they didn't want the potential compromising of _his_ spy in any way to have been _their_ fault, if only because they begat and raised the little rotters. Severus was reasonably convinced, they hadn't made a good job of _either_.

Severus' memories and the Dark Lord's Legilimens settled the issue quickly. Their objections were predictable, but foolish. His persistent denials earned Crabbe Sr. several Crucios. 

Severus found that... satisfactory. Quite. 

It didn't begin to make up for having to share those memories, though, and it will bother him, greatly, in the months to come. But then he'd always known he wouldn't have a choice. 

In a fairly elegant manoeuvre, he managed to both praise Theo's perspicacity and gain Norman Nott's support. Now that his only child was apparently being cast as the hero of the piece, suddenly he was willing to believe what Snape said was gospel. Severus didn't care _why_ it worked, just that it _did_. He left the bickering with the other parents in Nott's capable, if often murderous, hands. 

Severus still had a great deal of justifying to do.  
  


Contrary to Miss Granger's expectations, he put forward _every single one_ of the reasons she contrived for their bonding. And then some. And then he dug deep and made up a few more. He might have been a little desperate towards the end.  
  


He was pressured into acting _minutes_ after waking from a coma, while still in no shape, thanks to the treatment he received _there_ at the Manor, ta muchly, to be able to seek instructions. Blah blah. 

Bellatrix told him not to be such a whiny little bitch, _her_ word, not _his_ , although he lauded her gender neutrality, just not... vocally. _Everyone there_ knew _where he was Friday._ Poor _ickle Potions Prof._ She _had thought he could handle_ more _. How... disappointing._ You-Know-Who stepped in, having seen the memories, to tell her the situation with the boys had quite thoroughly taxed Severus. 

It was _completely_ unclear if that was meant to be a help or hindrance. That's depressingly common. Fortunately as no one else seemed to be sure either, everyone struck a neutral stance on the matter until _he_ weighed in more decisively. 

Small favours.  
  


Everyone was _dead certain_ this was a _punishment_ for not having Draco better in hand. No question. For once they were all in agreement. That was rare enough to be a miracle. Or a sign of impending doom. Probably _that_ and probably _his_. 

Severus wondered again if there weren't actually some truth to it, but if were it up to _him_ , _he'd_ have expelled Draco long before things ever got that far. 

_Poisoned_ mead? _Cursed_ necklaces? The _Putrefaction Potion_? Imperiused students, barmaids and Aurors? Oh my. If _anyone_ deserved a punishment for failing to have the boy under control, it _should_ have been _Albus_. 

The punishment theory was robustly borne out by the memories of Severus' Crucio of Draco. All were thoroughly convinced that even Snape must have seen it the same way. 

_That_ led to an uncomfortable interruption for _duelling_. Of course it did.  
  


Honestly, _any_ excuse will do. It annoys Severus no end that they can't even complete an interrogation without breaking for a battle of skills or torture. More so, naturally, when _he's_ the individual being tortured. That would come soon enough. 

Rookwood groaned his agreement with Severus as to the frequent interruptions, Augustus' frustration at their lack of focus very evident and greater than his caution. He must have been _exceedingly_ frustrated indeed. Between that and the incessant whipping out of... wands. The constant challenging, the posturing, the perpetual _measuring_ against one another... It was worse than school. Hogwarts, even.

They were bored out of their gourds, stuck there in the Manor as they were, and apparently Severus was slated to be the evening's... entertainment. 

Severus was 'given' the chance to avenge himself, not that it was optional, to demand... _satisfaction_ from Lucius for the... _inconveniences_ Draco had caused. Lucius, on the other hand, was given a 'chance' to seek revenge for Severus' treatment of the Malfoy heir this evening. The reason was specious, there was no dissension - Draco got what he deserved, but then the results of the duel weren't really in question. 

Even in Severus' still weakened state, it was no contest. Lucius hasn't had his own wand since last summer, and he suffered... greatly in Azkaban. He's a shadow of his former self. Severus made it quick, he had no desire to extend the abuse and soon left the man lying there on the floor, only barely conscious. When done with... attitude commensurate to their expectations, no one... _crucial_ took it for mercy.  
  


It wasn't as unfortunate as he initially thought, however. As everyone else watched Macy, the Malfoys' ancient house elf, gather Lucius from the ground to take him to his rooms, Severus slipped Narcissa some of his own Anti-spasmodic Potion in passing. Once she was alone again in her corner of the room and everyone's focus was elsewhere, she would summon another elf to deliver the Potion to her husband. 

Severus whispered to the concerned wife and mother that he'd arranged for Draco to have some of the same. Everyone knows Severus' brew is a damn sight better than the usual dram. Cheers.

When asked, he sometimes likes to... joke the secret ingredient is 'love'. Advantageously, sarcasm puts an abrupt end to such queries. Truthfully, of course, it's 'self-interest'. That can be every bit as effective, particularly when there's no love to be had. 

Cloaked in appropriately disdainful tones, he told Narcissa more loudly how Draco had spent the day in the Infirmary. And then he recounted the boy's stupidity at dinner, how he made a move on someone who enjoys the benefits of Severus' Protection Vow. That was greeted, rather typically, by laughter from those nearby. Why should the scion have fared better than his wretched father?

Word will spread, because they find other's misfortune... diverting, and they're _desperate_ for diversion. 

It undoubtably accomplished all Draco had hoped for in the process. Severus is efficient that way. 

It also served to subtly reinforce the idea of that Vow in their minds, paired helpfully to an image of Severus... reacting. Everyone there has been on the receiving end of his Curse at some point or another, which says much about how they spend their evenings together. _No one_ is eager to experience his Crucio again. It should prove... useful to have _that_ associated with any thoughts of his bondmate. 

Narcissa has known Severus for a very long time, and knows him _well_. Unlike most currently housed under her roof, _his_ was company she had deliberately sought during the interim between the wars. She considers him a friend, to the extent he has any. She was perfectly able to read the message between the lines, and she could now happily ignore any reports to the contrary: her son seemed quite recovered from yesterday's misadventure. Or _had_ until Severus had Crucioed him, but he saw no point in emphasising that overmuch. And Draco was receiving treatment for that. 

She nearly broke cover, so great was her relief, and asked, half begged, if she could do anything for Severus to make amends. 

It just so happens the Malfoys still have connections that defy all reason. Galleons, it seems, make the world go round, disturbingly even more so than magic, reputations be damned. And it also transpired that Severus expected to have... issues with the press in the days to come. All it took was a word in the blonde's ear. 

It was practically sorted.  
  


Well, _that_ bit at least. His _Darkness_ still had questions about this business of the bonding...

Severus racked his brain for more justifications... His apparent lack of hesitation should help to maintain his cover with the Order, blah blah, and the girl was insignificant anyway. She could be easily ignored. 

Well, for _them_. 

_He_ has to live with her.  
  


Severus tried to explain the tactical advantage his bondmate may provide for spying...

There was a moment of _hilarity_ , it was too, _too_ funny, Severus somehow failed to see it as such, but possibly he was the _only_ one, when the Dark Lord realised _which_ Mudblood Severus has been bonded to. He was apparently familiar with the chit from Potter's thoughts and found the idea simply... _hysterical_. Live with _her_ indeed...

And he was exceedingly happy to share the information, such that he had, with all. 

Ta. 

Dolohov was encouraged to tell how easily she was defeated at the Department of Mysteries. The man had no idea how lucky he was that he didn't go into detail about what he had done to her. His luck won't hold forever. 

Severus refrained from pointing out a dozen _adult_ Death Eaters had gone up against mere handful of _children_ , his... _wife_ the eldest amongst them a scant sixteen (or perhaps seventeen) years of age at the time. And _those_ children had held their own reasonably well, cheers, until help from the Order came, and all but Bella had landed in Azkaban for over a year for their pains. Hardly a _good_ showing from the Death Eaters, but if it made them any happier, by all means, denigrate his bondmate. See if he cared. 

He added Dolohov's name to his list of people to make more miserable. 

He didn't make the connection between the nature of that impulse of his and the pride he couldn't reconcile on Miss Granger's part when she told Minerva how he had rescued her. They're more closely related than he could believe.  
  


Severus needn't have worried about keeping silent, though. Goyle, who _hadn't_ been present at the DoM, took up the slack and cheerfully pointed out how ignominiously those that _were_ had been defeated. He's not the brightest Lumos. This only drew attention to his _absence_ during the affair, and he was clearly in the minority as these days the participants were effectively _always_ present and accounted for at the Manor, where they've been lying low for months now, by and large being escaped criminals, as it were. 

Some animosity persisted between those that fought, those that served time in Azkaban, and those who did neither. 

Goyle wasn't left standing long. 

Nott was the only father left upright, and he had no more issues with Snape. Severus considered it managed. As usual with these things, he was right.  
  


They returned to the questioning, but it didn't last long. Trying to keep Death Eaters on track is a bit like herding cats. Admittedly _homicidal_ , _demented_ , _malevolent_ cats, but the comparison stands... 

Still terribly amused, and apparently unable to move past the notion of Snape bonded to the bushy-haired swot, the Dark Lord actually _interrupted the interrogation_ , _again_ , to _congratulate_ Severus enthusiastically on his nuptials. Everyone took it for the indication it was that _he_ considered the bond practically punishment enough. _For the bond_. Severus wasn't sure that even made sense. He thought it might be a paradox.  
  


Still, _whatever_ opinion they may have held of his bondmate, regardless how poor, which rankled, Severus knew it wouldn't be enough. He wasn't done there. He's _never_ done there. 

Bellatrix naturally doubted everything he said. She's mad as a riled hornets' nest but she can always be relied upon to try to make his life as miserable as she can. At least there are some constants in the universe. 

He had been waiting for some time for _exactly_ such an opening to use her suggestion for the Unbreakable Vow against her. He seized his chance and told her she _knew_ he must have been acting in Draco's best interests. She naturally neither confirmed nor denied it, and he pressed on. _His Vow_ guaranteed it. The Dark Lord pounced, also predictably, 'which _Vow_?' Severus, regretfully, allowed that he was... _afraid_ he shouldn't say. 

It seems snakes have hackles. This was new to Severus, too, but Riddle had his raised and _how_. Narcissa felt the need to try to head off the unavoidable, not that it would help, by definition, and began to explain; Bellatrix on the other hand did anything but. 

Whatever else, Riddle is no fool. He's perfectly capable of recognising avoidance when he sees it. If anything, it served to attract his attention as if she had shone a klieg on it. Or probably an absurdly bright Lumos; it's a pity they can't be directed. He demanded Bella make a report, in full. 

Narcissa was quickly forgiven, she hadn't suggested the Vow, she'd simply taken advantage of the opportunity; she's a mother and apparently mothers weren't entirely to be trusted. There was _no_ good response to that, so the room kept still. Frequently that proves to be the wisest course of action. But Bella.... Hadn't she trusted _his_ judgment? To have compromised his spy's position... And Severus, to have gone against his wishes... 

" _She questioned my loyalty, to you, my Lord, what choice..._ " and he _is_ the boy's godfather, he _has_ a duty, and as long as he were fulfilling their Lord's orders... Severus was a backstop, nothing more, insurance his Lord's wishes would come to fruition. You-Know-Who, predictably, didn't admit his orders had little to do with what he really _wanted_. What Slytherin would?

Severus had gauged correctly. He was forgiven. _Almost_ completely. His use as a spy once Dumbledore is eliminated is over, and Riddle might be pleased to see Severus attempt to measure himself against the old wizard. 

There _had_ been a chance Severus could have remained in position to continue spying once Draco failed, but the Vow has been sworn, and the Dark Lord is pragmatic. Or so enamoured of the idea of a dead Dumbledore now that he thought about it that he acted as though he were; the chances of that result have increased markedly with Snape's involvement. Or perhaps it hadn't occurred to him that Severus could have carried on. _He's_ marginally less rational than Albus these days.

And Bellatrix had _much_ explaining to do. Later. In private. In detail. It was... also satisfactory. 

Now that the Vow was revealed, and as it _can't_ be in Severus' interests for it to be common knowledge, it was assumed to be inadvertent... Quite _unintentional_. These people truly are imbeciles of the first water... 

Severus _pled_. His Unbreakable Vow meant he had to keep Draco in school for the boy to have any hope of accomplishing his task. As they, to a man, didn't believe he would be successful, initially no one was particularly impressed by the argument, missing the point entirely that the Vow doesn't give a rat's about the probability of _success_. _Cretins_. 

Not for the first time Severus wondered _why_ he ever thought he could find a home with these people. He still had no good answer. What could he say? He had been young, and apparently desperate. And equally apparently _blazingly_ obtuse himself at the time. 

At least he got better. The same can't be said for the majority congregated at the Malfoys'.  
  


Had Dumbledore scanned Draco's mind, and surely that would have followed, what were the chances of him not finding out all about that little chore the Dark Lord had set for him? He may be a doddering old dolt, fine, it's _certain_ , but surely he isn't _that_ incompetent. He wouldn't have missed it. _This_ was the best measure of protection Severus could have given Draco, which, again, he couldn't emphasise it enough, he was _forced to_ thanks to the Vow. 

He distracted from the real issues by pleading, once more, that they not make it clear to Draco that he has an Unbreakable Vow guaranteeing him Severus' support. Truthfully, he didn't need the boy reporting back in any detail the kinds of things that still appear possible despite it. That wouldn't be... helpful. Merlin knows, the _Crucio_ should certainly have made them wonder, but the fact they viewed it as _warranted_ had made them overlook that aspect. Morons.

Instead he argued, _how_ would he ever convince Dumbledore he could trust him were the Headmaster to see that thought in Draco's mind. 

It was convincing. 

Tell the boy he could trust Severus, if they must say anything, if the old goat were to see _that_ , he would just take it to mean his spy was successful. But for Merlin's sake, don't mention the Vow... His desperation, feigned, was greeted with more mocking laughter. 

He hated almost everyone in the room.  
  


And naturally, were those present to mention it to anyone... That would make it _impossible_ for him to fulfil the terms of the Vow. It was practically a death sentence. Still more chuckles, they're positively _contemptible_. 

Severus wasn't really worried about it one way or another. Albus is only too willing to have him succeed. _Success_ isn't in question, and the Vow hadn't exactly come with a time limit. And all the begging came a good deal easier to him when he frankly didn't care about the outcome in the least. But the Dark Lord was now invested in seeing this play out and had soon ordered the lot of them to swear their silence on the subject. 

For the period of one year. _Consider it his wedding present._

Riddle thought he was putting pressure on Severus and smiled most maliciously. Severus personally thought he'd be _exceedingly_ lucky if he had half that time before he was forced to act, it _really_ made no difference at all, but he put on an appropriately apprehensive air. Riddle's smile only deepened. Undoubtably that was one punishment less Severus would have to weather. 

That went quite smoothly. And there was now so much focus on the Vow, the bond seemed almost an afterthought. Smoke and mirrors. Increasingly, they're becoming Severus' bread and butter.  
  


There was no doubt either that Severus is to serve as a glorified bodyguard. Several laughed at Dumbledore's gullibility or feeble-mindedness, highly amused that apparently _murder_ didn't count against the Potions Master when he was considered for that position. _It's rather like leaving the wolf to tend the sheep_ , they were almost agreed. 

_Assuming one pulled the wolf's teeth_ , Bellatrix objected, knowing quite well he _isn't_ a rapist and rather astutely suspecting his motives for the bonding. _And were the sheep desiccated mummies_. Severus wasn't even sure if he should be more insulted for himself or Miss Granger. Probably the witch, in all fairness. 

He cringed inwardly at the reflexive image of a wolf gumming pemmican... 

It was no matter. He hates Bellatrix. There's little she could say or do to change how he feels about her. 

He's probably wrong about that.  
  


In a bit of genius, he allowed the memory of a thought to trickle through, his relief that the Fidelity Vow ensured he no longer faced _that_ particular threat. _He can't be forced to rape..._ It would earn him a Crucio, but was readily believed, and that was what counted now. It fit with what they knew of him. 

The truth is a tool like any other, it can be weaponised or used as a shield. Severus is fundamentally a street fighter; when he fights, he fights to win. He'll use anything to hand, less fussed with appearances than results when it comes down to it. 

That often goes completely unrecognised, as most people have no idea what battle he's actually fighting. It leaves them unable to gauge his efforts or his success. He finds humour in that. Rather a lot of it. It may be a defence mechanism, but it's no less true. 

It only works in his favour for that to go unnoticed. It's an advantage purchased at the cost of pride, and pride had stopped mattering so much back when he was still a student. Or maybe it had shifted. It's no longer as important what others think. What matters most is what _he_ knows to be true. 

And the ability to Occlude on the days that's not enough. 

Those may have been increasing of late.  
  


But Severus had done what he could to prepare. He conserved his energy today. For the most part. He had taken every remotely sensible medicinal Potion. For once. (He's not generally a good patient.) He'd even had some chocolate, not that he's sure it helps all that much in advance, but it did nice things for his spirits. Small mercies. He takes them where he can. 

He hadn't overburdened his magic. Nothing more than a handful of spells at a time, nothing too dramatic, not even his Crucios, and he'd given himself time to recover afterwards. He hadn't faffed about defeating Lucius, he fought decisively, and then he stalled Riddle with his explanations and begging until he was quite recovered from the duel. 

He was particularly pleased with his solution for silencing all assembled at dinner in the Great Hall - it had been elegant, a bare minimum of spells. Bloody brilliant really. He was reasonably sure a couple hundred Silencios would have been impossible by contrast. And certainly ill advised this evening. 

He was as ready as he could be. He took a deep breath and Occluded some more. 

Preemptively, Severus Summoned his Anti-spasmodic from the extended pocket of his cloak inconspicuously to his hand and popped the stopper. Once open, he was able to administer the Potion prophylactically directly to his stomach. He isn't really sure it should count as a 'prophylactic' if it's not a moment too soon. 

Bellatrix was permitted the honours. She took great pleasure in doing so.  
  


Her curse work was every bit as dreadful as should be anticipated coming from the Dark Lord's lieutenant. Horrible, but nothing out of the ordinary. _Their_ ordinary. It's hardly an experience he _cares for_ , but it's nothing he can't handle or hasn't _had to_ frequently enough. 

No, that was... acceptable. Stunningly painful, but _expected_. Everything was under control.

Until it wasn't.  
  


What he hadn't prepared for was how the bond would come into play. 

_Miss Granger's apparent distress over his situation_, by glaring contrast to the situation itself, was making it _incredibly_ difficult for him to cope. He would have savoured the irony if it weren't taking him out at the knees. _Bloody. Fucking. Hell._

He really should have known better, the way his luck had been going. It was an unforgivable oversight on his part, and he was now quite certain he was going to pay dearly. 

Somewhere or another, presumably in their quarters, the witch was apparently blind with fear, worry and panic, and the bond assured she wasn't keeping it to herself. No, she was sharing. With a vengeance. 

The Crucio was bad enough, no question, but the _emotional assault_ through the bond... And he still wasn't adequately recovered for this. He was weak on his feet and faltered, barely managing to silently and wandlessly cast a Cushioning Charm before falling to one knee. Not exactly impressive, until one considers it was done while under the Cruciatus. He was genuinely satisfied with the effort. His knee would thank him. 

The thought of his bondmate gave rise to another bit of inspiration, from his talk with her earlier, he cast again and got lucky. A bit of deception, play acting, and he'd caused Bellatrix to stop sooner than she otherwise would have. Her laughter rang in his ears and would echo for a while after, but laughter has never killed anyone. He couldn't give a fuck. 

Dissembling admirably, more grovelling from him pried a concession from the madwoman. Well, at the Dark Lord's command, anyhow. Close enough. As his loudest detractor, she reluctantly had to - finally - admit Severus was right, she _knew_ with certainty that he must do everything in his power to help Draco and was forced to acknowledge that Severus _couldn't_ have had any ulterior motives. That was worth Galleons. Or perhaps he _could_ have ulterior motives, she corrected, but _if_ he did, they ran parallel to their own wishes. Riddle failed to understand the distinction. 

Severus was forced to Occlude for all he was worth, but it was... advantageous to over and not under emphasize the pain, or they would have simply applied more. 

Agreeing with what he understood of Bellatrix's analysis, her brains are so often overlooked in the face of her madness, perhaps somewhat understandably, the Dark Lord decided Severus still deserved another Crucio in parting. But when doesn't he? The bond, he accepted, was necessary due to the Vow. The Vow, however, _hadn't been_. As reasons go, it was as good as any other. Next time, perhaps it will be because the night is dark...

Still, on balance, _he_ was far less displeased about the Vow than the bond, and the punishment in total was a _great_ deal milder than Severus had any right to expect. He was very much aware of that fact and made sure not to show his relief. 

Again the Dark Lord allowed Bella the honours. Considering Severus at fault for disclosing the Vow, and therefore for her own punishment that was sure to follow, Bellatrix put her all into the Curse. 

It was to be expected. Misery loves company after all.  
  


Severus tried to hide from the pain in his own mind while still exhibiting all the desired responses. He was pushed to his limits especially given how recently he had been through similar treatment. And then the damnable bond took matters resolutely out of his hands. 

The flood of emotion overwhelmed him once again, and he found himself on his knees, the Cushioning Charm thankfully still in place. He cursed Dumbledore, possibly out loud, and although he might not have noticed it, the sum of his response was enough for Riddle to put up a hand to stay Bellatrix's Curse, as Severus slumped, unconscious, to the floor. All trace of the Cushioning Charm disappeared most opportunely once he had done so. 

Anyone who had been unconvinced about the dangers of bonds after the Wilkes attempt found themselves taking them a great deal more seriously now. No one could recall ever seeing Snape fall like that. And that _quickly_... 

Merlin's hairy ballsack. What had the man done?  
  


Severus was carried from the room, and awoke sometime later in the foyer with Anthony Avery in attendance. 

A reflexive pat of his sleeve revealed his wand was still in place. Riddle prefers it that way, to have his... victims armed and _not_ reaching for their wands more clearly demonstrates their surrender. And in much the same vein as what Severus had done with Draco just hours before, it shows You-Know-Who believes he has nothing to fear. Anthony grimaced in recognition at Severus' gesture, he had been in the same position himself often enough, and nodded his now superfluous assurance - _it was still there_. 

Avery had been his roommate for seven years at school, along with Mulciber, Wilkes and Rosier. Wilkes and Rosier died in the first war, and Mulciber spent the next fourteen years in Azkaban. Severus and Anthony have been through much together, and he is _far_ from being as abhorrent as most who have taken up residence at the Manor. 

On the contrary, he has always been one of the moderates and has been known to think of others on occasion. Worth mentioning, as it's a highly _unusual_ trait for a Death Eater. When the Dark Lord returned, Avery had thrown himself at his feet and begged for mercy, not just for himself, but for _all_ of _his_ followers. It earned Anthony the Cruciatus, of course. It's not like he wouldn't have known it was coming. But it didn't stop him from doing it either. 

Anthony's father was loyal, _extremely_ so, to the Dark Lord. Avery Sr. was one of the original Death Eaters, a friend of Riddle's from Hogwarts, just like the fathers of Severus' roommates Mulciber and Rosier, or the somewhat older Lestrange brothers. Or Theo's father, for that matter; Norman Nott is one of the very few remaining of the original guard. The scarcity of their number probably should have given the younger, aspiring Death Eaters pause. 

Sadly it did not. 

Much like Draco and Theo in the current generation, Anthony had had virtually no choice in his development. He was destined for his role whether he liked it or not. Failure to comply and deviation from course were simply not options. 

The story is all too familiar. 

Their friendship, however, such as it had been, had been damaged irreparably towards the end of the first war. The first cut came when Severus changed sides, not that Avery understood what had happened. The cleft only grew wider not long after when both managed to escape prosecution for their activities during the war. It was _extremely_ dangerous to admit they'd been loyal Death Eaters, and _just_ as dangerous to claim they _weren't_. They never had a remotely honest exchange again. How could they?

Nevertheless, some fondness remains. 

Anthony helped Severus up from the fainting couch he'd been left on, and not unkindly told him he was free to go. 

"Do you need me to help you to the Apparition point?" He offered, assisting Severus into his winter cloak. Severus discovered that he did, and with his arm slung over Anthony's shoulders and Anthony's around his waist, the two made their cumbersome way in silence through the snow up the drive. Conversation between them is... fraught with risks and frequently avoided. It suited Severus, as it left him alone with his thoughts.  
  


Not altogether surprisingly, Severus was having problems recognising certain details. He was angry, frustrated, and more than a little disheartened by the vulnerability the bond and Miss Granger's feelings seemed to represent. That was perfectly fair. He felt that the bond left him exposed, unable to act, and missed entirely that each time it had done so, he hadn't _intended_ to act. He'd simply taken the abuse served. 

What it _did_ was take the _choice_ out of his hands, although that's reason enough to be displeased. But _twice_ now today, it had more or less brought about an earlier end to mistreatment he was suffering for reasons he _should_ understand well enough; he'd only just explained that dynamic to Miss Granger himself. 

Having left his assailants in the belief they'd been successful, more so than intended, in fact, they _ended_ their attacks. Verbal and physical. He was ultimately less... _harmed_ as a result. It's a difficult distinction to make, particularly if one isn't all too aware of what is happening at the time. That would be a peculiarity of loss of consciousness. 

Unfortunately, those facts will escape him for a while yet.

But now once again, as he struggled to leave the Manor behind him, Miss Granger's concern was serving as a balm, kissing over raw nerve endings, soothing him, making it... better. _That_ he noticed. Somewhere, someone, he had no desire to explain the need to depersonalise it - he knew precisely _where_ and _who_ , _desperately_ wanted him out of there. Safe and whole. _Home_. It left him... conflicted, not that it mattered, inasmuch as he couldn't change the facts of their bond regardless how much he might he wish it.  
  


He concentrated instead on the snowy path in front of them as they trudged to the property's border.

There must be a spell for that, to clear the way, something the elves can do... That probably meant it was necessary for their cover to make the Manor appear mostly deserted. Severus turned, thinking their footprints were an obvious flaw to that plan only to see them disappearing behind him. 

There's an answer for most things if only one looks. 

It was a little depressing to realise the impressions he had left behind more closely resembled drag marks than prints. Just as well they were gone... 

Avery was good enough to cast a Warming Charm on them both. It would see him home. When they reached the gates, he let him out. "Will you make it back alright?" 

Severus could do no more than nod. 

Unsure quite how to take his leave, Anthony wished him a tentative, "Congratulations?" He paused, undecided if it really needed saying, but in light of their shared history, he felt compelled to add, "Watch yourself, Severus. You remember what happened to Wilkes." 

Severus had not forgotten. Willem's fate had been going through his mind quite a bit since Albus proposed the insane idea. More so, naturally, ever since Severus had been dumb enough to have gone through with the bonding. 

Avery followed it up with a grim, "Good luck," in farewell as he locked and re-warded the gates behind him. 

With a 'pop' much louder than usual, Severus Apparated back to the castle.

* * *

  


Sunny kept a close watch as always, having long since learned to recognise the signs of a visit to the Manor, and when he discovers the Professor lying unconscious in the snow, he hurries to fetch Hermione. 

Hermione has been going quietly mad for the better part of the evening. What the Professor doesn't realise, and she won't tell him any time soon, is that when he Occludes, strongly, while she may no longer be able to discern his feelings, or only the vaguest hints, she can _very_ clearly tell that he is Occluding. It is far more noticeable, in fact, than the normal strength of their bond. It feels rather like she imagines the proverbial deafening silence must. And it's easily as oppressive. 

It's also impossible to maintain that level of Occluding while being tortured, she now knows, and she was incredibly clear on much of what transpired this evening. If she thought _her_ experience Friday was terrifying, this has redefined the word for her. Completely. 

Few in the Order have any idea of the extent of the treatment he is subjected to. And few would care. Virtually none show any sympathy for him. Dumbledore has a fair idea of the reality of the situation but is relentless in the pursuit of his goals, offering little in terms of real sympathy. When he _does_ offer sympathy, it seems a hollow gesture, considering _he_ is the one demanding that Severus go back time and again to suffer the next round. 

The fact he doesn't seem to have been sliced to ribbons again, if the feelings she was able to interpret can be relied upon for such detail, the level of pain wasn't constant or remotely linear, would indicate that his treatment probably wasn't nearly as bad as what he faced a few nights ago. But then, he wasn't in anywhere near as good shape when things began today as he had been Friday. What she knows with certainty is that he is out of their clutches now and his condition is _grave_. 

So she's not the least bit surprised when their elf appears before her, calling for her help. It's also no coincidence that she has remained dressed, is still wearing her trainers, and has her winter cloak lying at the ready. 

"Mistress, Mistress must come! Quick! Master of Potions!"

"Where is he, Sunny?" She demands, reaching for the cloak and heading towards the door, curfew be damned. 

"Mistress comes now." Sunny says, and with next to no warning, the elf has grabbed her arm and Apparated her to the Professor's side. That's certainly one way to avoid Hallway Patrols. She wasn't aware elves could do that, the inability to Apparate within Hogwarts one of the firm rules extremely well documented in 'Hogwarts: A History'. She's still reeling from the usual twist and pull of Apparition, and Sunny looks at her guiltily.

"Mistress not tells Sunny does this. No," and the poor house elf begins twisting his ears before she can assure him she'll never breathe a word of it if he'll only stop. She's probably lying, but it does the trick. He relaxes a little, and she turns back to the unconscious man lying at their feet. 

A Discerno, and isn't _that_ proving a useful thing to have learnt, followed by a cursory examination reveals that at least he doesn't seem to be bleeding profusely like last time. She now recognises the shudders and tremors for what they are, Cruciatus after effects, but easy enough to guess, only too aware he'd been Crucioed before, and knows she'll need to get him to Madam Pomfrey as soon as possible. 

She moves quickly to stretch him out, to better assess the situation, to make sure he would be safe to Apparate. She sticks her wand behind her ear, crawls a bit to come to a kneel on the ground behind his shoulders, wraps her arms around him and _pulls_ him towards her until he's almost fully extended. The groan he emits as she's almost finished doing so brings her efforts to a halt, and he lies there sprawled before her, his head now pillowed in her lap. 

She can't help noticing the state of his trousers, very conspicuously wet around his groin. Somewhat ironic, she decides regretfully, given what he had done to Draco earlier and their conversation thereafter. She knows he'd probably appreciate it if as few people as possible saw that, and, only slightly embarrassed, performs Cleansing, Cleaning and Drying Charms to tidy him up. No one else need ever know. 

She blushes a little at the Cleansing Charm, feeling it might somehow be a bridge too far, too intimate, but she doesn't like doing things by halves. It's the _correct_ thing to do. But possibly not exactly the _appropriate_ thing... 

He rouses a little as she casts her Charms. Hermione is relieved, of course she is, but she's also kind of sorry he does, very aware of the consideration he had shown her after she was attacked, and equally eager not to embarrass him now. 

"Karma?" she quips, trying to play it off as insignificant, keeping her tone light and her gaze averted, still calmly running her hands over his chest and arms, examining him for injuries, signs of splinching, and _almost_ achieving the appearance of professional detachment. It's a good effort. 

"Aguamenti," he chuffs, rather smugly, seeking her eyes. "Our conversation..." he's short of breath, but _utterly_ serious, "gave me the idea." The grin on his face would tell her just how proud he is of that little bit of duplicity if the bond hadn't already. It... gives her hope. 

"Infirmary?" She asks him gently. If he's awake, _aware_ , she'd prefer having his permission. 

"That would be best..." he manages and then slips back into unconsciousness. 

She turns to Sunny and asks if he can Apparate them to the Infirmary, and the elf explains he must never be seen Apparating someone within the castle. She doesn't quite follow, but there's plenty of time for that later, and she just accepts the parameters for the moment. 

"Is there anyone in the room where the Professor stayed in the Infirmary over the weekend?" The little elf disappears practically before the words are out of her mouth, but he's back again before she can even call for him. 

When the elf shakes his head in the negative, continuing the conversation as though he hadn't left, she suggests, "If you closed the door so no one would see us, could you then take us all there?" And suddenly he's smiling, Hermione feels like she's been sucked through a straw, and the three of them are relocated to the private back room of the Infirmary, the solution no sooner suggested than implemented. She doesn't quite understand the differences, but she knows that his magic is different to hers in ways she can't begin to comprehend. 

She doesn't even bother getting up off the floor. From her position half beneath the Professor, still carefully cradling his head, she uses a Mobilicorpus to lift him and get him gently into the bed. Only once he's safely tucked in does she head out to look for the Matron who is rather startled to have someone effectively sneak up on her from behind.  
  


Sunny takes advantage of her absence to remove and Banish the Master's boots and socks to the wardrobe; humans never seem to do things properly. But all told, he's satisfied with her performance. Mistress took good care of the Master. Well, except for the footwear. Boots in bed... Still shaking his head, he disappears again from sight.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See comments for 1) a shameless plug for Grooot's latest story. Because Grooot rules. 
> 
> 2) Update on my good self, if you're curious, and shameless solicitation for 'hang in there, kiddo's (It's being that kind of life. *sigh*)


	58. 11 10-11a Mon - Tues - Sorting Severus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Poppy, Hermione, Severus (in repose), Filius, Dhanesh and Kiera Devi, mentioned: Seamus, Ron, Dean_

Poppy is just seeing Filius and the Devis off at the door to the Infirmary. "Mr. Devi, I want to see you back here no later than Friday, do you understand? I mean it, young man. It won't be at all good for your skin in the least to leave... _that_ in place too long in a single stretch," her hand waves indicating his tail. She sighs. "It really would be wiser to just have your sister teach you the Charm, you know. Madam Devi, I'm relying on you to see that he comes back here, we're clear?"

A sheepish duet of 'Yes, Madam Pomfrey's and a round of 'Thank you's is her answer. Poppy's doing her best to appear stern. Fortunately, she's an old hand. 

Filius chuckles, "I'll see them safely back to the Tower. It is after curfew after all." The affectionately exasperated look he gives the couple would suggest that's not his only concern. He'd like to know they actually _returned_ to the Gryffindor dormitories. His suspicion is not without grounds; Filius is an old hand, too. "Good night, Poppy, and thanks again for your help. Come along, you two."

Having determined that the tail, while not quite prehensile, can be controlled with reasonable accuracy, the young couple had _begged_ the Charms Master, between giggles, to leave it in place for a couple of days once he finally established the proper Counter-charm. The Mediwitch is quite certain she couldn't say whatever _for_. She shakes her head in amusement. Ah, to be young again. Or on one's honeymoon. Preferably both. 

She closes the door, warding it for the night, and turns again to her domain. Mr. Finnigan had been quickly restored, and was long since dispatched back to his House. Why Mr. Weasley kept those confounded Pastilles about _without_ the antidote is an interesting question, and it might have influenced her decision to keep him in the Infirmary for the night. 

She knows how much he enjoys her gruel for breakfast. 

Both boys are regulars in her care, and she won't half miss them when they graduate at the end of the year. Mr. Finnigan had come up with some highly... creative ways to blow things up during his tenure as a student there, and had single-wandedly caused quite the uptick in Burn-healing Paste consumption. Both for himself and others. 

As to the evening's misadventures, Mr. Weasley's head had been shrunk without much ado with a combination of a Reducio and a Deflating Draught. His headache was pronounced, but hardly unexpected. It was probably a fair measure worse than need be anyhow, as he had insisted on bellowing about like a unbridled loon. It was a wonder everyone else didn't have a headache to match at that volume. 

Considering the condition of Mr. Thomas' skin, however, she's not certain she should feel all too sorry for the ginger. The poor Thomas boy was peppered with lesions from top to tail now that the boils had receded. He _definitely_ won't be in classes tomorrow. But with a little luck, and copious amounts of Scar Scarcefying Salve, he won't be marked by the altercation. 

She'll never understand what gets into these children. 

A few more swoops, arcs and flicks of her wand have the sleeping boys' curtains closed and wards set around them for the night. She'll be alerted if they need her before morning. She has a few things left to attend to in her office before she retires for the night, and is about to withdraw to the little room off the Infirmary's entrance when she's surprised by a figure that emerges, seemingly from nowhere, behind her. 

"Goodness, Miss... _Madam Snape_. This is certainly the night for Gryffindors. Where did _you_ come from?" Hermione blinks at being addressed like that. She may have used the name herself to make a point... And so had the Professor... Well, fine, and Malfoy had used it to taunt her, but this is the first time someone has just... called her by that name conversationally without some kind of prompting, and it's... It will take some getting used to, she decides.

"Sorry, Madam Pomfrey, I didn't mean to startle you, but we're back again."

"Whatever happened? Was there a relapse, wasn't he sufficiently healed?" The Mediwitch runs through the possibilities in her mind, already shifting to work mode.

"Only if the same people treating him in much the same fashion can be counted as a relapse." Hermione has no words, _nothing_ with which to describe her revulsion at the things she felt through the bond tonight. She's hiding behind sarcasm, but it's a weak disguise. 

"But he's only just left here!" Hermione smiles inwardly at that bit of faulty logic. She's had some of that the past few days herself. She thinks it's how the mind fails to deal with certain shocks. There have certainly been plenty of those recently.

"They don't seem to care about that much." Her grimace is wry. "Or maybe he just missed your company." She can't help thinking it certainly wasn't the Infirmary food, but wisely keeps that to herself.

"Where is he then?" 

She leads the older witch back to his room where she performs a number of scans. Hermione watches closely, taking in as much as possible. Somewhere in the back of her mind is the suspicion that this might become a regular thing. But she's also sure that things will be getting worse in the war long before they get better, and these seem very much like useful skills to have. She wonders, not for the first time, why this isn't part of the regular curriculum. She certainly finds it more useful than flying around on a stupid broomstick. It's not like anyone ever needed _Quidditch_ to survive. And don't get her started on Divination...

The procedure is much the same as it had been Friday night. Diagnostic spells are cast in a flurry, clothes are removed, potions come flying, Healing Charms follow. Poppy is a marvel in her element, far too frequently dismissed as 'just' a school nurse. Severus regularly provides her with real challenges, and in the past few years, they have increased in difficulty. And just how many mediwitches today can claim to have treated basilisk patients?

Once the Matron's actions slow, and the Professor is presumably stabilised, Hermione asks after his prognosis. 

"Well, I guess you're next of kin now." Hermione pails a little at that, but has a growing suspicion the woman enjoys a spot of fun teasing her about that. Certainly her _not_ being next of kin hadn't stopped the witch from telling her about the Professor's condition over the weekend. Once again, she has the good sense to keep that to herself. 

"He's stable. Not out of the woods yet, but stable. He'll probably make it. That's mostly luck again, although it was a very good thing you got him here so quickly. And of course he's too stubborn to die." The Matron seems to hide behind snark much like Hermione does, but it isn't robust and it's hard to maintain, and her worry is readily apparent. "But coming this soon on the heels of last time... It isn't good. It isn't good at all. He won't be in classes tomorrow, that's for sure." 

Hermione can't help thinking she would have been in that class. Before she had to drop it this morning, that is. How quickly things change. 

The Mediwitch waves her wand and soon has the Professor in pyjama bottoms, leaving his torso bare. Hermione couldn't explain it, but somehow she finds his state more revealing than she had just a moment ago when he was lying there in nothing but his pants. It's probably because the emergency has passed, and her adrenaline level has crashed drastically. Another few wand flicks and Charms, and he's tucked in with his naked chest half exposed and his arms resting on top of the coverlet. 

"I guess I should let the Headmaster know. He'll need to make arrangements." The Matron looks down at her patient again, tucks a strand of hair behind one of his ears and sighs, "Some wedding present that was."

She turns and leaves the room, and shortly Hermione can hear her Flooing the Headmaster to update him on the situation. Hermione just stands there staring at the man stretched out before her. Her... bondmate. She stops to think how very nearly she just became a... widow. 

She's shocked and appalled at his condition, once again more than a little contrite, knowing their bonding was the reason for this. The bond that's supposed to keep _her_ safe. She still can't quite believe that it does much if anything for him, which naturally intensifies those feelings of guilt. There's not much anyone could say to her right now to convince her otherwise. It may come with time.

Madam Pomfrey returns to the room, sees the young woman wrestling with her perceived culpability and decides to give her a break. Not unkindly she tells her, "He's had worse."

Hermione just shakes her head sadly, "That's not comforting in the least."

"It's just unfortunate, and risky of course, that it comes so closely after the last bout." 

"'Bout'? You make it sound like a _sickness_."

The Matron just looks her in the eyes and asks, "How can you doubt there's sickness behind this?" Now it's Madam Pomfrey's turn to shake her head, the moment of whimsy passed. "But they won't have known how badly off he was after dealing with the boys. This was probably unintentional."

Hermione seems almost near tears. "That _really_ doesn't make it better." She is horrified at the casual indifference they seem to have to almost killing him. Repeatedly. 

The last few days have been exceptionally... No. They have been _exceptional_. Full stop. _Highly_ unusual. A horrific roller coaster ride. She's been attacked, nearly... nearly raped, presumably nearly _gang raped_ , and that's the first time she's even been able to _think_ those words since, rescued, _bonded _, nearly _widowed___ , and in the process of that last, exposed to torture through their bond, the like of which she couldn't previously conceive. 

It's about to catch up to her.

Fortunately, Poppy is by her side, and recognises the signs. She steers the young woman into a chair beside Severus' bed, sits her down and Summons a Calming Draught. The young witch is an easy patient, she doesn't grumble or cavil, like some, Poppy thinks with a glance towards the unconscious man, she just accepts the Potion she's given, quaffs it and waits for it to take effect.

Poppy takes advantage of the moment to fuss a bit over Severus. No one else does. She's convinced it helps, and he'd certainly never hold still for it if he were conscious. But then that's half the problem, that he is all too often in her presence and _not_ conscious. 

She does her level best for him, as she has done for most of the past twenty-six years. She tucks him in, Charms the sweat from his brow, fluffing his hair in that way that caught Hermione's eye as amusing. She still finds it vaguely so, despite the circumstances. Poppy then strokes his face and holds his hand, coming to rest in a second chair she's Summoned to the other side of his bed. 

Hermione can't help staring at this display. The familiarity the Matron exhibits... She suspects the Professor is a regular here. 

Madam Pomfrey misinterprets the young woman's look, or perhaps she's back to teasing her, and tells her, "You don't need to look at me so suspiciously. I've no designs on your husband." 

And again Hermione finds herself blinking at the Matron's choice of words. Hermione has in fact been hiding in her thoughts behind the terms 'bond' instead of 'marriage', 'bondmate' instead of 'husband'. But she's beginning to understand Madam Pomfrey's sense of humour, which should help if she's to be a regular here, too.

The Matron continues, more reassuringly this time, "The Vow wouldn't let me anyway. Yours, not mine." Hermione looks extremely uncomfortable at that phrasing, the Professor most definitely not _hers_ , not even her _professor_ any more, and the Mediwitch tries again, "Your Vow? Not my Vow?" 

When Hermione looks even more unsure about that, Madam Pomfrey stops to consider the Muggle-born witch possibly might not know what she's talking about. More than a little concerned that no one filled her in prior to her taking her Vows, the Matron explains, "The Fidelity Vow wouldn't let me hold his hand if I were truly interested in him. It would hurt. Me. Not him. Well, and him, too, of course, but only if he reciprocated that interest. 

"Did no one explain any of this to you?" Hermione's widened eyes answer _that_ rather succinctly. 

"Oh, dear." She considers a bit and then tries to explain, "Well, more than just sexual relations are affected by a Fidelity Vow. There can be _no_ impropriety. No inappropriate interest. Were either of you to care for anyone else, in that manner, there would be a degree of discomfort attached to any affection demonstrated. The effects are not always symmetrical between the bonded, I believe, but _usually_. Unlike your Protection or Loyalty Vows, but it depends on what you included and how it was phrased." 

Frankly, Poppy thinks it was much the same, she's fairly sure of it even, but she'd be extremely hard pressed to recall the precise wording. She hadn't thought to memorise the phrasing. Whatever for? Honestly, that was hardly _her_ job. "Did the Headmaster really not explain this..." Hermione's look is worrying, and Poppy is glad she's already taken a Calming Draught. This is definitely not a conversation she'd like to have with her _without_ it.

"The greater the degree of interest, the less the Vow allows." She sounds almost hopeful, as though at any moment Hermione will recognise something familiar and there will be no more need to explain all of this. It would almost be funny, if they weren't discussing an unalterable Vow. 

"So if you were particularly interested in someone else, perhaps it wouldn't allow you to hold hands. But if the interest were very mild, you could conceivably buss their cheek with no ill effects. The same is true of someone who shows interest in you. The more interest, the less the Vow and your bond permit."

Hermione sits there shell shocked. She can't believe she didn't know _any_ of this. It's not that _this_ makes such a big difference. It probably doesn't. Although if it turns out she can no longer be affectionate with her friends, she'll be displeased. But it illustrates perfectly how little she knows about something she's done, and yet she had taken _irreversible_ action. She's wondering what else she doesn't know. It's extremely out of character, and she finds _that_ very worrying. It's not like her, at all, and she's giving serious thought to how she got here. 

Her thoughts about the Headmaster are less than complimentary at the moment.  
  


Satisfied that she's cleared that up sufficiently for the young woman, the Matron returns to her original point, "Touch." Hermione has trouble for a minute following her. "It helps to heal faster. Faster and better. People always underestimate it. The more touch, the more caring, the faster they heal." 

She looks a little sad, and then thinks for just a moment before deciding to say what she does next, that's how sure she is that she's right to do so. "I don't think there's much of that in his life. And what of it there is, is almost exclusively to cause pain. That's not good for him. It's not good for anybody." She's stroking his face again. It's obvious she cares. Hermione takes that as a good sign that her own friendships won't necessarily be impacted before thinking about the Matron's words. And then she feels a sharp stab of guilt that she was worried how this affects _herself_.

Poppy's not sure it's her place to have said anything. She knows with certainty her patient would never thank her for it. But she's also realised something fundamental about their bond, ironically before either of the two affected by it, although she would readily agree that they are both more intelligent than she is. The bond means ultimately they'll need to be there for each other, because there will never be any others. Unfortunately, she's fears it won't be a good thing when they finally figure that out. She can only hope she's wrong about that.  
  


"What about _your_ Vows?" Hermione asks, disturbing the Mediwitch's musings, eager as ever to learn if someone is willing to instruct. 

"Hmm?" The Matron queries, Summoning a small jar of what seems to be Scar Scarcefying Salve. She removes the top and sets about applying the Salve to the Professor's chest. Hermione can't seem to take her eyes off the Mediwitch's progress. 

"You said my Vows, not yours, affect touch. What are _your_ Vows?"

"I thought your Muggle healers took Vows too?" She's moved on to applying the salve to his stomach now, and Hermione makes a concerted effort to stop staring. 

She smiles instead, thinking about her parents taking a Hippocratic 'Vow', as though the word would make a difference, and replies, "Something like that."

"Well so do our healers, mediwitches and nurses. It's basically a Wizard's Oath binding certain spells. Permitting certain applications and forbidding others under threat of very severe penalties." Hermione hasn't a clue what she means. 

Fortunately, her face reveals that just as clearly as every other thought that crosses her mind. 

"Administering Potions directly, for example. Straight to another person's stomach or bloodstream. I _can_ , with certain limitations, you _couldn't_ , even if you mastered the spell. At the same time the Vow narrowly restricts _what_ I can administer. Nothing that would leave you worse off, if you follow. Not knowingly, anyway," she chuckles. "Mistakes _have_ been known to happen. 

"There was that unfortunate cure for Spattergroit which did more harm than good during the last major outbreak a century ago, but it was an honest mistake. And of course no Vow will protect you from an incompetent healer.

"Here, help me with his back, would you?" The Matron levers him up and pushes him carefully towards the young witch and then indicates for Hermione to brace him in that position. "It's alright. Come, be a love." Hermione hesitantly does as she asks, cautiously grabbing his upper arms to prop him up as the Mediwitch continues applying the Salve to the man's equally scarred back. 

Hermione must look incredibly ill at ease, because the Matron chuckles and tries to reassure her, "You needn't worry. He won't wake while we're doing this. I gave him something to make sure he sleeps. He shouldn't wake until lunch tomorrow. He needs the rest."

"I'm not sure his not _waking_ while we're doing this actually makes it any _better_. That's not really the point. The point is I'm pretty sure he wouldn't _approve_ , either way." Revulsion is a hard thing to forget, and the thought of _his_ weighs on her heavily as she holds him. 

"Well, it needs doing, and I've only the two hands." Were she a little sharper, perhaps Hermione would ask what the Matron normally does, but she's distracted. She has good cause. "Consider yourself deputised. Drafted. Conscripted into service, if it helps your conscience any." When the young woman still doesn't appear particularly encouraged by that, she tries a different approach. 

"He frequently doesn't _want_ things he _needs_. As much as I'd wish it were otherwise, he can't always be depended upon to make the best decisions for himself, and if I wish to treat him successfully, _properly_ , I can't always do as he _wants_." 

Hermione gives that some thought as she watches the Mediwitch work on the unconscious man. Personally, she thinks that probably should be left up to _him_ , but she understands the Matron only too well. She has a little experience herself with making decisions for other people's benefit. Whether they like it or not. 

She finally finds the courage to ask, "Why he does have so many scars?" She can feel the scar she still bears from the fight in the Department of Mysteries sort of pull and itch beneath her top as she thinks of it. Magic seems able to heal so many injuries without any trace, but some stubbornly remain. She wonders about the nature of his scars that they're still so visible.

The Matron's answer isn't quite what Hermione was expecting. "He doesn't always stay put to be properly treated. 

"You understand what he does, what he sometimes _has to do_ for the Order?" Hermione's lips are tight as she nods, her expression pained. She's acutely aware that she doesn't actually _know_ much about it, but she now has an _inkling_. That's probably sufficient for Madam Pomfrey's purposes. 

Poppy, as the person treating Severus, or _trying_ to anyhow, probably has one of the most accurate impressions of what the wizard faces of any outside You-Know-Who's inner circle, second only to Albus. Arguably, perhaps even more so than Albus. She may not always be able to itemise the Curses cast, but she can probably catalogue the injuries better than the poor victim himself. And she has a long memory for these things. 

"I believe he sometimes rejects care because he doesn't feel he deserves it." Poppy waits and allows that to sink in before she continues. 

"I can promise you this, Madam Snape, I would never permit you to do something I wasn't convinced was in his best interests. And I certainly wouldn't _encourage_ it. Does that put your mind to rest?" 

Poppy's instincts are good, _very_ good, and on occasion Severus does indeed reject treatment because he feels what he stood by and allowed to happen, what he idly _watched_ , and worse, sometimes what he had _done_ , precluded any right to treatment, to having his pain alleviated. He really _does_ think he deserves to suffer. But she's not absolutely correct about his motivations for reasons she doesn't begin to comprehend. She can't truly picture his world, although she does have a far clearer view than most, and as so often when people differ, the truth lies somewhere in between his views and hers. 

Hermione nods her agreement, and continues to assist the Mediwitch in the Professor's care. But Hermione's hesitance will prove to be a good thing. It puts a damper on her normally overly... _enthusiastic_ nature. In _this_ constellation, that can only be advantageous. 

Once the Matron finishes applying the Salve, the two witches lay the man gently back down upon the bed. The Matron again arranges his arms over his blanket and gives him a sympathetic and slightly doting smile he'd probably never stand for were he conscious. Clearly a benefit to him lying for it then, as well as his de facto obliviousness to her care. At least there's that...

Now that she's no longer battling her mixed emotions about helping to treat the Professor, Hermione's thoughts return to her conversation with the Mediwitch, "I'm almost afraid to ask. What did the Spattergroit 'cure' do?"

"It seems those to whom it was given grew gills. And scales. And webbing between their fingers. And apparently their legs transformed into tails... Frankly, there was nothing for it, they had to take to the water. Still, it sorted the Spattergroit, so it wasn't a complete failure."

"I could see where it wasn't considered a resounding _success_ , though." Hermione sounds somewhat mortified. She'll never grow used to the way witches and wizards shrug these things off like nothing more consequential than just another rainy day. In the _United Kingdom_ , she should add. 

"Oh, no, no one would argue that it was. Of course not. Actually, there are rumours that's essentially how the first Selkies came to be millennia ago. They're different to the southern Merpeople after all. But the point remains, the Healers' Vows couldn't prevent it, one way or another. 

"Many of the Healing Charms are similarly limited. I taught you the Discerno, not simply because it's one of the _easier_ Diagnostic Charms to learn, but also because it's one of the _best_ ones that _isn't_ restricted in its use. _You_ are able to perform it, _anyone_ is, on someone who isn't formally your patient or for whom you haven't got permissions."

"Permissions?"

"Well, anything else would be too revealing, wouldn't it now? People can't walk around checking what their neighbours have eaten for lunch, or when they last had a spot of how's your father, for that matter. Goodness, no. And just imagine if the Mister and Missus had different results." Hermione's eyes widen, but she bites her lip and doesn't interrupt the Matron. She's far more likely to learn more that way. Poppy still catches her expression, lets out an amused chuckle, and amends the statement, _slightly_ mindful of propriety. "Wouldn't do at all to know who was cheating... on their diets.

"So there are so-called 'permissions' which some Charms require in order for them to be used at all. Say between medical witches and wizards and their patients. And only those who take Vows are even taught certain spells. Those very same Vows preclude teaching those Charms to anyone who _hasn't_.

"Or there are other relationships which grant similar permissions." Not for the first time, Poppy thinks they do their Muggle-born and -raised pupils a disservice not teaching these things. _Really_ , who puts together their syllabi? But Quidditch is clearly _so much_ more important. It would never do not to be able to break every single bone in their little bodies from the tender age of twelve on.... Rolanda's a lovely woman, truly, but _really_. _Quidditch_.

"A parent can give their child medicinal Potions directly until adulthood, although they usually choose not to out of fear. The parents could have practiced on one another first, of course, permissions _can be_ granted within a marriage, but not many expectant couples think to prepare that way, and by the time they might, it's too late in the process. No one wants to experiment like that with a highly pregnant or nursing witch. And then routine takes over. They become accustomed to seeking out a healer. 

"Now why the _wizard_ isn't subjected to it, I surely couldn't begin to say. And yet oddly enough, they seldom are. I've always suspected it's because they're worse patients and bigger cowards," looking down at Severus, she tucks his hair behind his ear and adds, "very definitely excepting present company in that generalisation. 

"Although he is a _dreadful_ patient, just so we're clear. Perfectly dreadful." It's hard to reconcile the woman's tender smile with the word 'dreadful', but it somehow fits. 

She gives Severus' bare shoulder a squeeze in parting and excuses herself to tend to some things in her office, leaving Hermione to her thoughts.  
  


Sadly, her thoughts aren't great.  
  


The Calming Draught helps, beyond doubt, but without the Matron to distract her, staring at the unconscious man in the bed next to her keeps driving her back to the same conclusions. They shouldn't have done this. The only thing she feels she knows for sure about their Vows at the moment is that they are responsible for his lying there. And that's entirely _her_ fault. 

It might not have gotten out of hand, but given what the bond had shared with her before, she can't shake it off.

It escapes her entirely that _he_ could have said 'No'. Or that the Headmaster needn't have pushed this agenda. Or certainly not so quickly, before the Professor was fully recovered. Right now, late in the night, seated next to the man she... married, who still might not survive the night, all she can think is _she_ put him here.

* * *

  


When Poppy returns to the room a while later, she realises she underestimated the witch's condition before. She has no trouble accurately assessing Madam Snape's shape now, and despite the Calming Draught, it's concerning. Or particularly _in light of it_. She retakes her seat on the other side of Severus' bed, once again taking his hand and stroking the hair out of his face, and resolves to try to help the young woman out of what seems to be a spiral of guilt.

"Would you like to talk about it?" Poppy tends to be more matter-of-fact than gentle, but she does her best. Madam Snape appears not to notice much, either way.

"We never should have done it," Hermione answers, rather unclearly, but Poppy understands her immediately.

"Of the three individuals involved in the decision making process for the bonding, I would consider you the least to blame for it." 

Hermione mulls that over for a bit. She's inclined to agree, in part, and yet somehow it still doesn't seem to absolve her from her share of the responsibility. She just can't get past that. 

Poppy can read that clearly in her face as well. She decides to try again, in much the same vein as before, perhaps revealing things she possibly shouldn't, but that she expects will help her two patients, for she recognises that _both_ need her help. That's clearly her primary responsibility. She consoles herself that as next of kin, she'd be entitled to share certain information with the young woman anyway, as if it mattered. 

"There was almost no chance he wouldn't have pushed you to go through with this, Madam Snape." 

"But he didn't. He tried to talk me out of it."

"In the short term. Had you decided against, I feel certain he would have tried to talk you round. Given time, I'm quite sure the result would have been the same."

"Given _time_ ," Hermione sounds far too agonised for someone with a Calming Draught in her system, "the results would surely have been _different_. Half the problem is the state he was in when they got him in their claws again."

There's no arguing with that. It's true. But what the poor witch doesn't seem to realise is just how frequently that occurs. Any given amount of time after one round of torture is merely a variable time period before the _next_ round. It's an irregular cycle, but a cycle nevertheless, and it's been shortening, happening more and more frequently of late. Poppy decides to keep that to herself for now. She doesn't think Madam Snape can handle _that_ knowledge just yet. 

Poppy Accios another Calming Draught, intending to adjust the dosage, and again Hermione takes it without complaint.

"Had he been in better shape, they simply would have treated him _worse_. He wasn't cut to ribbons this time, for which we can be grateful, and that won't have been a coincidence. Regardless of his condition at the outset, in light of the news he had to deliver, you can be reasonably certain his condition when he returned would have been much the same."

"All the more reason not to have done this!" There's no mistaking the sincerity of the witch's feelings, but Poppy can tell, the Draught is already taking the edge off of them. Her patient is less worked up than before.

"Madam Snape, had you declined, he would have worked until you were convinced."

" _He's_ not the one who convinced me. The _Headmaster_ was the one who prevailed upon me to do this..."

"And again, Madam Snape, I can assure you, had you _refused_ , and Severus _truly_ believed you were in danger, he would not have quit until you were persuaded. And after what I saw of your state Friday night, how could he not believe it? Trust me, this ending was a foregone conclusion."

"He can hardly go around bonding the female half of the student body to keep them safe," Hermione immediately objects, obviously irritated. " _That_ solution, as I understand it, works a grand total of _once_."

Poppy's lips purse for the briefest of moments before she simply blurts out the frightening truth. It may be scary, but she senses it will provide a different sort of comfort as well. "He wouldn't need to, Madam Snape. In all my years here, and Merlin knows they've been quite a few, yours was the only... case I've _ever_ heard of, thank the gods. The _only_ one. No one else currently appears to be as much at risk as you do. 

"And now you _aren't_. He would not have been able to remain idle given the ability to _act_. _He_ couldn't."

She's right that it gives the young woman pause. She blinks owlishly for a bit before rejoining, "Why on earth is that _his_ problem?"

"Don't underestimate what it means to him to be able to affect a positive outcome. Much of what he does means he has to remain inactive and bear witness to things no one should ever have to see. And that's when he isn't forced to act contrary to his very nature and _participate_. Beyond a doubt, this bonding, the limitations it brings, and your safety, will provide him with a great deal of comfort."

"Always assuming he survives, of course." Hermione's tone sounds petulant, but then she's more than a little sullen and frankly exhausted. But the Matron's words echo things the Potions Master had told her... just yesterday. It seems such a long time ago now. But she still fails to see its importance considering what he is apparently willing to do to maintain his cover.

"I have faith he _will_ survive. He's not in a coma this time, Madam Snape. He's simply asleep. That's an extremely important distinction. He's a fighter. And his circumstances are improved. That should help."

Hermione chooses to ignore what she might mean by 'his circumstances' and pulls at another thread instead. Ultimately, people haven't been all too forthcoming, and if Madam Pomfrey is willing to share information, then Hermione fully intends to milk her for every last drop. "Why is this so important to him? Why does my safety matter so much?"

This is... tricky. Undoubtedly part of the reason the young woman was at risk is her friendship with Mr. Potter. That risk will comprise part of Severus' and the Headmaster's motivation to secure her safety. And for precisely that _same_ reason, she will be seen as _worth_ protecting: her role is important. But both of those reasons boil down to that importance deriving from that friendship to Mr. Potter; hardly a flattering basis for a bonding. 

As Poppy is unable to offer any other immediate motivations to counterbalance that, she has the good sense to keep mum about it. Severus is notorious for keeping his own counsel, sometimes even from himself one suspects, but unquestionably wise given Poppy's demonstrated willingness to reveal his secrets. She can't say for sure what he was thinking. 

Still, it's hardly the only explanation for his behaviour.

"I think you need to know some things about his home life to understand that." Poppy has the decency to hesitate at least for a breath before exposing things he would never _dream_ of telling the young woman sat across his bed from her.

  



	59. 11 10-11b Mon - Tues - The Past Imperfect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Poppy, Hermione, Severus (still in repose), mentioned: Eileen and Tobias Snape_
> 
> Trigger wasn't just a horse... Details kept to a minimum.

And so a day into her... marriage, over the unconscious and severely injured body of her... husband, Hermione comes to learn of her deceased... mother-in-law, Eileen Snape, pure-blood witch, and some of what befell her once she married the Muggle of deservedly ill repute, Tobias Snape. 

It wasn't pretty. 

The abuse was extensive, and didn't stop with her. Severus had been on the receiving end of hand, fist, switch and belt so often over the years that it became more the rule than the exception. 

Something deep in Hermione clenches, tightening almost painfully as she looks at her Professor, sprawled obliviously before her. The maltreatment certainly hasn't stopped. Gods. No one deserves that. _He_ certainly doesn't. She feels her stomach flip flop as she just thinks about it. Instinctively she reaches out to touch him, to comfort, only just catching herself before she does and aborting the reaction, hoping the Mediwitch didn't notice. She sublimates the impulse, clenching the phial around her neck instead. 

And indications were his mother had fared worse.

"There was no conceivable way, given his background and a chance to spare you that abuse that he wouldn't have acted on Albus' request to keep you safe, Madam Snape. It's out of the question."

"It would have been nice to know this when making my decision about the bonding," Hermione complains.

"Well, you made the right decision anyway, and you wouldn't have wanted people to influence you." Poppy's just a mite defensive and slipping back into her usual no-nonsense manner.

"What I _want_ is the relevant information when it's _needed_." Hermione is becoming frustrated with the feeling that she's simply a pawn, not remotely in control of anything of import in her life, and this constant withholding of information only contributes to that problem. To be fair, the Matron has been a great deal more forthcoming than almost anyone else, except possibly the Professor himself. Her timing, however, leaves a bit to be desired. 

Hermione wouldn't want people trying to _influence_ her? She almost laughs at the absurdity, but it's a far from happy feeling. It's as though the Matron had never _met_ the Headmaster. 

"Don't you think asking someone who has just been attacked if she'd be willing to do just this teeny tiny favour for her rescuer is exerting undue influence?" She challenges the Matron.

"Well... you haven't been hurt by it," Poppy objects, unable to resist a meaningful look at Severus lying between them. It's not a deliberate attempt to manipulate, that's not her style, it's merely a reflection of her thoughts, but it hits its mark anyway. "Surely you're not complaining?" 

"No, merely illustrating the _simple_ case for influence. Now how about a less obvious one? Are you aware that an even better predictor of the likelihood that someone will do you a favour than whether or not they owe _you_ is actually whether or not you are indebted to _them_? It's counterintuitive, I know, but no less true. So the chances, say, when you approach someone who has just risked his life to save a third party and ask if they wouldn't mind doing this little thing for that same person is actually _higher_ than the other way around. 

"The Professor never stood a chance." 

"That seems unlikely."

"And yet it's been repeatedly proven. Muggle science has its moments. And I think I can guarantee you the Headmaster understands this dynamic, if only subconsciously, after all his years of experience here." 

"Well, Severus wouldn't have refused him anyway. He never does."

"That hardly makes it better, Madam Pomfrey. If anything, that just makes my point."  
  


She sighs in vexation, takes a moment and then tries again to convince the Mediwitch. "Did you know when Professor Dumbledore suggested the bonding, he asked me to list further instances of Professor Snape's heroics on our behalves? _Why_ do you imagine he did that?"

Completely ignoring the point of the witch's question, and for much the same purpose that Albus had originally posed _his_ question that's at the root of it, although their motives for doing so differ vastly, Poppy now asks, " _Oh_? You mean _besides_ the incident you related with Professor Lupin? What else had Professor Snape done?" 

"Saved our collective necks a number of times. But that wasn't the point..."

" _Really_?" The Matron sounds terribly pleased. "That seems _so_ like our Severus. And it's just like him, too, that I never heard a word about any of it..." 

That seems somewhat... improbable and at least _slightly_ duplicitous given no less than _three_ of those occasions involved his brewing highly complicated Potions for _Hermione's_ sake while she was in _Madam Pomfrey's care_. _Twice_ they were _life saving_. _The Mediwitch_ should be more aware of that than almost anyone else. But she's back to brushing strands of hair gently from his face, a thoroughly innocent air about her. 

Again Hermione almost has to laugh in disbelief. It's too ridiculous, and they're too transparent. 

Frankly, she can tell herself that all she likes - after speaking to the apparently oh so transparent Headmaster, she still somehow ended up irrevocably bonded to the Professor in a move she now finds herself questioning. If she's only recognising that _now_ , it's too little, too late.

Nevertheless, she has a sneaking suspicion, and she's more than a little right, that the Matron's idea is to get her thinking more positively of the man lying in front of her. She doubts it's necessary anymore. Distant memories of taunts in his classroom have been seriously relativised and then completely eclipsed by the events of the past few days. 

What mattered more? Five points from Gryffindor for some infraction, possibly warranted, and certainly useful for his cover, or how he clutched her to his bleeding chest and carried her to safety while gravely wounded? _Any_ negative thoughts she has that are _remotely_ tangential to him at the moment are _entirely_ guilt related, and only likely to be exacerbated by considering his assorted acts of heroism. 

But the Mediwitch is no Slytherin, and she's certainly not some master manipulator, and Hermione takes less umbrage at her all too obvious attempt. She senses, also correctly, that the woman has _their_ best interests at heart, and this corresponds to her notion of a healthy nudge in what she considers the right direction. 

Madam Pomfrey has been helpful and cleared many things up for Hermione, and she decides to humour her in this, honestly explaining, "Please don't misunderstand me, Matron. I'm not questioning his bravery, not in the least. Or his willingness to sacrifice or protect others. I know where he went this evening. I know all too well what they did to him. And I saw, I _felt_ how calmly he returned there _despite_ apparently knowing what to expect. His bravery can't _possibly_ be in question."

For her part, Poppy is quite pleased to hear that the younger woman recognises these traits of Severus'. He deserves no less, which typically for the man means he rarely gets it. If anything, _this_ makes her like the little witch more. 

She begins to smile somewhat affectionately, at both of them now, as she resumes what Hermione would have to call her petting of his hand. That's _exactly_ how she pets Crooks when he's in the mood for it. Somehow that seems... apt. Hermione suspects the Professor and her familiar may well have some things in common. She's right about that, more so than she currently realises. 

Hermione doesn't believe she _could_ think more highly of the Potions Master. He consented to the bond, knew he'd have to report it to You-Know-Who, and quietly marched back into that... nest again after what they had done to him Friday. And she'd _seen_ the results of _that_. She'll never forget it. She can't begin to fathom the courage that took. And at _no point_ while they were trying to kill him - yet again - this evening had the man been the least bit _surprised_. She knows this for a fact. The bond proved it. He knew _precisely_ what he'd have to face, and _still_ went to face it. 

She thinks she sees him fairly clearly by this point. 

If anything, it leaves her even angrier at the Headmaster. She holds _him_ responsible for this. If, as Madam Pomfrey assures her, _this_ was the guaranteed result of their bond, then Professor Dumbledore shouldn't have pushed for it. Or he should have explained it. She'd never have consented to subjecting the Professor to this. Not after what he'd done for her. 

_Never_.  
  


Right now, she kind of wants the Headmaster's head on a pike. The more she thinks about it, the angrier she gets. 

Hermione hopes the Mediwitch's smile means she might now be inclined to continue their conversation more productively. She tries again to explain where her problem lies. "I can't shake the feeling we've been... _finessed_ to get here." Her hand shifts back and forth between her and the Professor and then circles a bit helplessly over him, trying to indicate the bond and his 'reward' for it. It's a strange gesture that the Matron nonetheless understands correctly. "And I simply don't understand _why_ he would subject himself to this."  
  


Poppy stills and is silent for a long time, just sitting there beside Severus, holding his hand. Absently she resumes stroking it with her second hand as she thinks for some time before turning to Hermione. "But again, Madam Snape, you underestimate how important the protection your Vow offers him is. What that means to _him_.

"Severus, by way of his background, has some _very_ strong feelings, some deeply held convictions, about women and violence towards them that are truly _not_ typical for the average wizard.

"As many of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's and his lot's victims are Muggle women and _not_ witches, that may even be a fairer way of looking at things. But either way, Severus has a very low tolerance for it. As you can imagine, it makes much he's had to witness even harder to stomach."  
  


Hermione shouldn't like to imagine it at all, but she can picture it all too well. This echoes things both Professors Snape and Dumbledore had said or hinted, and she's beginning to understand why Professor Snape wanted this. But the fact Madam Pomfrey seems so concerned about _his_ well being makes it easier for Hermione to believe what she says. 

With the Professor, she wasn't entirely sure he wouldn't tell her what he thought she needed to hear in order to decide to do the thing he felt was in her best interests. Madam Pomfrey seems to know him rather well, and even from her description, it sounds like something he might do. Hermione's done much the same often enough in the past, and she couldn't, she _wouldn't_ have blamed him if he _had_. And with the Headmaster, she couldn't help feeling he was pursuing a dozen other goals, and her safety _and_ the Professor's were... probably not even secondary concerns, if they mattered _at all_. 

But if the Matron says the bonding is somehow good for _him_ , then it probably _is_. Only as Hermione accepts it does she realise what a relief it is, and how much her doubt had been weighing on her.  
  


Poppy hesitates before revealing something more about the man lying between them. Severus would have her guts for garters for speaking out of turn. But then he needn't know. She's not entirely sure the young woman across from her should even hear this given what she's been through these past few days. And yet she'll never understand if someone doesn't tell her. And of course the two Calming Draughts are working for her...

There's no time like the present, then.

"His mum was raped." 

Hermione's eyes tear open wide, and her thoughts race to match her pulse as the Matron continues, "Repeatedly. By his _father_." She practically spits that. "They didn't call it that back then, of course. Merlin, it wasn't even an _offence_ back then, so it's not like she could have run to your constabulary, but there's no difference no matter what you call it. The violation's the same by any name."

Hermione has no idea how to respond to that, but it certainly explains a lot. 

All the hints the Headmaster had dropped just Saturday... She has a much clearer picture now of what he might have been trying to say. Why this was _so_ important to the Professor that he was willing to subject himself to a Geas and face torture for it. And why he had risked his life for her Friday. 

It's horrifying. 

Her thoughts seek refuge in trivialities, the harsh facts too much for her at the present. She remains firmly, but possibly not correctly, convinced the Muggle world has come further than the wizarding world in their views on women's roles and rights, and is appalled to hear Madam Pomfrey claim there was no legal recourse. So she asks, "Would the Aurors stop such a thing?"

"Well, generally, they wouldn't _need_ to, because a witch would hex the bastard's, pardon me, blackguard's bits to... bits I suppose, and that would be that. And generally our views on violence, _all_ forms of violence, tend to be very different, both because there aren't the same vulnerabilities and the after effects are clearly very different. As you yourself had occasion to learn a year and a half ago in the DoM." One of Hermione's hands moves subconsciously to rub her scar that seems to tighten and pull again.

"But his _mum_ was a witch..." 

"Yes, she was, but I've often wondered if she even had a wand anymore. The state of Severus, right from the very first day he started at Hogwarts, and presumably long before, the injuries, his clothes, his things..." Again she strokes the hair from his face, reflexively smiling softly, fondly at him. 

"Most witches would have sorted that. Would have sorted _him_. He couldn't at that age, obviously, underage magic. The Improper Use of Magic Office would have been all over him. And then of course, had she tried to defend herself, to defend them both... Well, there's always the issue of using magic on Muggles. It's _very_ risky business, that can easily end with time in Azkaban." 

Hermione's thoughts involuntarily turn again to what she's done to her parents... nervously. "Even when there's a threat?" she asks the Mediwitch, somewhat self-servingly. 

"Well, let's agree that the Wizengamot doesn't always get things right. The risk remains." 

She understands now more fully why the Professor told her to tell no one what she did, only that they've gone into hiding. She wonders how he views her actions given he had chosen to refrain faced with the same latent threat of Azkaban. He may have been more aware of it, and probably had longer to think about it. Years, even. She'd acted more spur of the moment, decided under pressure. And the threat Tobias posed was presumably both more pervasive, corrosive and yet less imminent than Voldemort's. Depressingly, it seems to have been a fairly constant thing. And probably not solved with a single spell, perhaps save something causing death... 

Or maybe he _could have_ rid his family of Tobias with an Obliviate? Holy Cricket. Would that make him more or less tolerant of her actions?

If he survived, that is...  
  


Poppy interrupts her contemplations, having revealed this much, there's now no stopping her, "He used to scream for his mum nights, when he was just a lad. And if he called out for her here, he'll have done it in his dorm. That caused problems, naturally. The other boys teased him, thought he was a mummy's boy. I suspect he hexed them in response. He fought a lot as a boy." Hermione looks at him and wonders if anything has changed in that regard. "They called him a coward, until he learned Silencing and Privacy Charms. But it was never because _he_ was frightened, you know," she looks so sad, and has returned to gently stroking his face. "It's because he was scared _for her_. 

"Oh, the state of him when he returned from holidays. He used to try to deflect his father's anger. I'm not at all sure that didn't just make things worse, though, and I suspect he isn't either in retrospect. His father apparently just blamed his mum for having such an insolent child. 

"Severus never forgave himself for not being there when she died.

"It's absurd. He couldn't have known. What was he supposed to have done? Never leave her side? And if he'd been home _then_ , it was every bit as likely to have happened some other time. But guilt isn't always rational. 

"He still cries out for her every once in a while when he's here, although gods know he's got enough other things to scream about now. On those nights when he forgets his Dreamless Sleep... It's not good he takes it so much, but if he's conscious when he's here, he does. It's that or Silencing Charms. He doesn't want anyone to know what he's facing..." She lapses into silence, perhaps too late, but Hermione grasps a number of things she hadn't before, and it _will_ simplify their lives. 

If he survives, of course. 

The women sit quietly together for some time, each lost in thought. Those thoughts naturally have a great deal to do with the man supine between them. He does rather provide one a good deal to think about.

Hermione finally breaks the silence, again chasing secondary considerations. They're... easier. By far. "What do you mean it wasn't an offence? His mother's assault?" 

"Why not till you were a student here, I believe. There was simply no such thing as marital rape. It's easy for someone your age to forget or never even notice how much things have changed, the difference those few years between his life in the Muggle world and yours can make. It's the curse of youth. The young are so quick to forget recent history. Do you know when he was born, it was still illegal for an _unmarried_ Muggle to use your contraceptive potions? That was the case until the late '60s."

"Pill," Hermione corrects without thinking. 

"Hard to believe," Poppy continues as though she hadn't been corrected, and indeed it may not have registered. "It's not like they had the Charm..." 

"How do you know these things?" Hermione has to admit she's surprised by the older witch's knowledge of the Muggle laws. Considering some people of her acquaintance seem overwhelmed by doorbells and telly-phones, this insight into the Matron's breadth of experience is quite astonishing. 

Poppy smirks at the young woman, clearly amused, again able to easily guess her line of thought. "Oh, my dear, we have enough Muggle-born or -raised students for me to learn these things. And unfortunately the problems in their system, the shortcomings in their world, those are the sorts of things that make an appearance in an Infirmary over the long run, one way or another." 

She looks at Severus and proceeds, obviously lost in memories, none of them pleasant, "The not yet fully healed spiral fracture, the bruises that clearly show the grip of a hand, the welts from a ring on a fist or the buckle on a belt, the lash marks... You learn quite a lot about a society that way. By the damage it inflicts."

Hermione looks at the Professor's unconscious form and points to him, "What does that say about _our_ society?" 

"Nothing good, I'm afraid. But then the poor boy has a way of always getting the worst on offer." Hermione bristles slightly at that, fair enough, but Poppy smiles at her kindly. "It would certainly be about time his luck changed, I should think." The smile truly is warm, and leaves Hermione unsure quite how to respond. 

"Well, as much as I've enjoyed our little chinwag, I need to see to our stores and check on the other patients before I retire for the night. Would you mind taking over in my absence?"

For a moment, Hermione doesn't quite follow. Take over what precisely? Until the Matron stands and indicates the Professor's other hand. Then the young woman just blinks rather helplessly. 

"It _would_ be alright, you know, if you held his hand. It really _does_ help." When Hermione still doesn't react, the Mediwitch lets out a huff of laughter and tells her, "He'll never have to know." 

At that, Hermione tentatively takes his hand in hers. Poppy bites back another snort of laughter and Transfigures the young witch's chair into something more like a recliner, complete with Cushioning Charm, assuming she'll stay the night again, as she had Friday and Saturday. Now that they're bondmates, she's probably even less likely to leave his side. 

Poppy steps back into the main room and Summons the blanket she's begun to think of as Madam Snape's, and then returns to hand it to the young woman. It should help her sleep a little better. Hermione thanks the Matron for her consideration and wishes her a good night, then makes herself comfortable as the older witch withdraws.

Suitably encouraged, Hermione does in fact hold her Professor's hand the whole night long. When she finally dozes off next to his bed in her Transfigured chair, she's still clutching his hand tightly in her own. He squeezes back, but never regains consciousness. 

On the other hand, Poppy can't help noticing when she checks in on them a little while later that although he does sleep uneasily, he _didn't_ take the Dreamless Sleep Potion and doesn't seem to have needed it. Her wards confirm it. He never cried out. She can't recall the last time that was the case if he was anything shy of comatose. Still, that could be simple exhaustion, or who knows, perhaps the blanket they're now somehow sharing is more powerful and sleep conducive than she had previously thought. It's only a single data point, but it's something to keep an eye on...  
  


Promising.

  



	60. 11 10-11c Mon - Tues - Nocturne, Sitting by Severus' Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hermione, Severus (still in repose), Sunny, mentioned: Poppy_
> 
> Because after the last chapter, we all deserve this. <3

Poppy hadn't had much by way of ulterior motives when she left Severus' chest exposed, and retreated for the night without giving it a second thought. 

She had hoped to simplify the application of the Salve to his scars, and had done so. It's better, more beneficial, if there's no fabric over it, even if the cloth has been Imperviused; exposure to air makes quite the difference. She intended to take full advantage of his inability to refuse treatment, and did. She had also hoped to make his suffering, and his extensive history of it, a little clearer to his bondmate... 

Unfortunately, she failed to consider a number of things in the process. 

It happens. 

First, that her words, evocative as they'd been, were far more likely to accomplish that last feat than any visual aid, regardless how strapping. If anything, said visual aid with all its... strappingness has a way of distracting the witch in question from... a great many things and making her much slower on the uptake than usual. That's quite the sticking point right there. 

Rather. 

Hermione, were she still able to focus, might point out that it's probably the reason why most Muggle presentations rely on PowerPoint instead of Strip-o-grams. Certainly her mum's last lecture, as reprinted, twice, in 'My Teeth', for the Society of Ambitious Dentists had. The former and not the latter, that is. 

Perhaps they'd have been happier with a Strip-o-gram. Who knows? _That_ might have been sufficient for a citation in 'International Smile'.

But as her father liked to quip, dentists often look sad, it's what comes from looking down in the mouth all day. Hermione suspected it might actually be mercury toxicity, but she misses her father's attempts at humour nonetheless.  
  


Second, with the bond and what it reveals, no one but the wizard himself has a clearer idea than precisely that witch of what he was subjected to tonight and how he felt about it. There's no longer any need for Poppy's somewhat ham-handed if sweet attempt to try to impress her with his courage in the face of adversity. Hermione had spent the greater portion of the evening scared silly. Terrified. She honestly couldn't think more of his bravery than she does tonight with her fear still fresh in her mind. 

Third, his bondmate had seen his chest Friday night while it was still sliced rather viciously to shreds. She has no medical experience to speak of; for a lay person, _that_ was a sight highly unlikely to be forgotten. Ever. It will haunt her for quite some time. 

And fourth, certainly in the aftermath of Hermione's experience with the Liquid Lust Friday night, the two women see _very_ different things when looking at him. Poppy still sees the injured boy she treated all those years ago. She knows he's grown into a rather courageous - if thoroughly cantankerous, difficult and _incredibly_ unfortunate - man, but the _boy_... The boy will always be there like some kind of afterimage hovering over him.  
  


Hermione, by contrast, _very definitely_ sees a _man_. 

And the Matron _probably_ hasn't done her peace of mind any favours baring him to her view like that. 

Or the lip she can't seem to stop chewing on. She'll be lucky if there's anything left to it come morning at the rate she's going. 

Hermione _doesn't_ tend to see the scars. Every now and again she notices them, which doesn't say much for her powers of observation, but reveals quite a bit about her frame of mind, and then she thinks of him with a great deal of sympathy. And more than a little relief that _those_ are her thoughts. 

They seem chaste enough.  
  


For the most part, however, she sees the hard planes of his chest, his muscular physique, his wiry arms. And the fact she knows _precisely_ what it feels like to be clutched to that chest, to be held in those arms... It makes it harder not to see them through a certain lens. A lens she is all too certain wouldn't be appreciated by the man himself. Not in the least. 

Not that that stops her from _thinking_ about it. No. It simply ensures she feels _guilty_ while doing so. 

But not terribly. Not for that. Not tonight. Particularly when she can rationally justify those thoughts. 

Sort of.  
  


Hermione is exceedingly fortunate that she has not one, but _two_ Calming Draughts coursing through her system at the moment. It makes many things... easier to handle. Her mixed and what would otherwise be rather tumultuous feelings for the man sleeping before her not least amongst them. Guilt is just one of the many things she's not feeling as strongly. 

The Calming Draught is distinctly different to the Draught of Peace, though. Having tried both today, and what a day it had been, she can say with adequate authority that she wouldn't be feeling much of anything had she taken Peace instead. Calming leaves her feeling things, but far less fussed. 

She remembers Lee Jordan banging on about peaks and pitch shifting and other radioy things. Lee was always keen on that. He'd grin madly and his dreads would take on a sort of Medusan life of their own as he rhapsodised about his hobby. Not that Hermione would ever lecture like that... 

Calming, she decides, is rather like shifting Lee's pitch. Radio, not Quidditch, should be understood. The emotions are still there, but far more manageable. Everything has just been taken a few notches... lower. 

Peace, by contrast seems to flatten those peaks of Lee's. It left her aware of what happened, cognitively unimpaired, she could extrapolate how she'd probably feel, but by and large she just didn't _feel_ it. Almost as though there were a ceiling and that was that. As with anything, it had its limits, as she'd discovered earlier, but it was quite potent and did a remarkable job. She shouldn't like to begin to imagine how she'd have felt without it at dinner tonight. It had been bad enough as was.  
  


With or without the Potion, however, it would probably have been easier for her on balance if the Professor hadn't been gripping her hand quite so tightly. 

But if he hadn't been, there were a couple of moments where she might have scarpered. At least for a bit. A breather can be very restorative. 

She spends a while watching him sleep fitfully, trying to decide why her thoughts of him tend to skew in a certain direction, which is a silly question given the aforementioned half naked state of the man, his physique and her response to it. Then wondering if the 'why' even matters. And then battling, rather futilely, against those very same thoughts, before repeating the cycle from the top. 

Practice makes perfect, when all is said and done, and Hermione's well known as a perfectionist. 

She wonders to what extent _these_ are her thoughts because of her experience with the Potion Friday or their bonding and the limitations, or more significantly the _possibilities_ suggested by the Fidelity Vow - that single word should be a rather good hint. Or if it's just because of how she feels about him. And she's not entirely sure to what extent rescuing her had made a difference, if at all. Of course it did. She'd realise that, too, if she gave any thought to how often she pictures him bursting through Professor McGonagall's classroom door, cloak swirling behind him. Roughly every second time she closes her eyes, in fact, but who's counting?  
  


Trying to distract herself, she studies the Dark Mark on the arm furthest away from her. That would be the one she isn't holding, not that she's thinking about his hand in hers. Or his long, strong fingers clasping hers. At all. 

Nope. 

She remembers when two and a half years ago he had exposed that Mark, his shame, to a room full of people right there in the Infirmary only a few yards away in a futile effort to convince the then Minister of Magic that You-Know-Who had returned. Fudge, the Minister at the time, had been unimpressed and in denial, and everyone had judged the Professor for the brand and his past rather harshly. 

Hermione had felt sorry for him. Well, in addition to feeling terrified about You-Know-Who and what the Mark meant, and relieved Harry was fine, and stunned about Professor Not-Moody, and sad about Cedric that is. She's capable of feeling a great many things all at once, after all. And frequently does. But she'd felt _sympathy_ for the Professor, not pity, although she's unsure he'd make or recognise the distinction. It was an act of desperation for him to do it and had been for naught. She wonders how often he finds himself in that position. 

And if there's anything she could do to help.  
  


An apparently stubborn strand of hair has fallen back into his face. It tenaciously refuses to remain behind his ear. Hermione fights the urge to tuck it back like the Mediwitch does. Instead she lies there in her chair, watching it, watching _him_ , pillowing her head on her free hand, never releasing his, although it's not clear she could, as fierce as his grasp is. She doesn't mind. It allows her to pretend they share the responsibility for the act. 

She's not really kidding herself.  
  


She watches him toss and turn until she just can't take it anymore. 

Remembering what the Matron had said about the properties of the blanket, she wonders if maybe it could help _him_ become more restful. So far so good. That seems a perfectly admirable goal. From there on out, however, her thought processes begin to tank. 

She doesn't quite dare to remove his blanket and swap. The very idea of exposing him in nothing but his pyjama bottoms when it's just the two of them alone in the little back room where they were married only yesterday suddenly seems... too much. There was something about the sight of his naked belly with its fine line of dark hair leading like a trail into his trousers... 

Eyelids, one may presume, have no function beyond the merely decorative... Closing them, should the situation truly demand it, is obviously completely unheard of. 

As she doesn't wish to forgo a blanket entirely, she quickly decides the best thing for it is for them to _share_. 

_Clearly_. 

Instead of fetching any of the no less than a dozen blankets from the main room currently _not_ in use, say. Or casting a Warming Charm. Or Geminioing the ruddy blanket itself for that matter. 

That's the kind of sharp thinking that makes the most sense when one has had precious little sleep for _days_. 

Or when one finds oneself looking for excuses to budge up closer to an attractive half naked man, perhaps. Not that she would _dream_ of doing such a thing. 

Whatever for when she can simply _do it_?

She gets up, still holding on to his hand as though there were a Sticking Charm in play, and somewhat awkwardly drags her Transfigured chair one-handedly still closer to the bed. Doing it in that manner can hardly help dampen the noise, and it makes a _terrible_ din. If that racket didn't wake him, nothing will, and it gives her more confidence in her actions. Not in their _rightness_ , that's questionable at best, even she senses it, but in the likelihood she'll get away with them. 

Her priorities, much like her justifications, remain... complicated things. 

She casts an Impervius on the blanket, that seems only considerate given the Scarcefying Salve on his... well on _him_ , really, and the fact the blanket isn't hers, at the end of the day, and then rotates the blanket a quarter turn so the length is now acting as the width. Satisfied that should more than cover them both now, which it does amply, she carefully tucks him in. _Very_ thoroughly. It's _possible_ she fusses over him just a little longer than absolutely necessary in the process. Madam Pomfrey's habits seem to be catching. It's not as though Hermione had recently learned a Charm for that. Oh, wait... 

That oversight on her part can undoubtedly be chalked up to the late hour. Almost certainly. 

Having seen to him, most conscientiously, she now curls up in her chair, pulling her legs up a little, unnecessarily, to guarantee they're completely covered by the blanket's now shortened length. She's on her left side, facing him again, and as he finally stills, he seems to respond in kind, turning towards her and coming to rest mirroring her position. 

The blanket, she decides, is every bit as good as the Mediwitch said. 

That Hermione had had to move closer for them to share it, that he can smell the scent of her beside him or traces of it all around him on the blanket and feel the warmth of her body next to him doesn't occur to her as contributing factors towards that rest, and he won't know any of it happened to consider it. All they'll know tomorrow is they both got a decent night's sleep. 

It's a pleasant change.

* * *

  


When Hermione was a very little girl of just two, her neighbours who would occasionally mind her for her parents had given her a stuffed Eeyore toy from the Winnie the Pooh series for Christmas. She adored her donkey every bit as much as the stories, probably more, and took him _everywhere_ with her for an embarrassingly long period of time best not disclosed here. 

He currently can be found, along with the entire contents of her childhood room at home, in her Undetectably Extended beaded handbag. In that sense, not much has changed; he's still going almost everywhere with her. It's not a coincidence, however, that Eeyore is one of the few things she _hadn't_ shrunk first before putting him in storage. 

The manufacturers of the stuffed toy, in all their infinite wisdom, and in the interests of an authentic play experience, or perhaps driven by the craven need to sell more replacement toys (most likely that, the bastards), had insidiously made the tail _detachable_. As one clearly _should_ with small children's toys. Only a small bit of Velcro kept the poor donkey's tail where it belonged, and soon the inevitable occurred. Inevitably, obviously. 

One evening shortly before bedtime, it's so much the way of these things, it borders on being a natural law, an inconsolable and hysterically sobbing Hermione appeared clutching a now tailless stuffed animal. 

The idea _she_ had made the poor little donkey's already unquestionably harsh life (her father thought she might be conflating some things there; that particular donkey had a decidedly cushy existence) still _more_ difficult was more than she could bear. The facts were clear in her mind: _she_ had hurt her E-ah. It's fair to note, that was the best name she could come up with at that age. 

Search parties were formed, the house was scoured, absolutely everything was upended, and in a bit of luck, the relatively inconspicuous strip of cloth was found, sensibly in the very last place they looked for it. Inexplicably eager to _never_ have a repeat of the experience, her parents conferred and quickly decided the tail needed to be permanently attached. Right then and there. 

Little persuasion was required before Hermione, too, was on side. 

As these were the days before Permanent Sticking Charms entered their lives, and as her mum put it, her father's sutures were a far sight neater, her mum held the little moppet securely in her lap while her father performed the honours. Soon Eeyore was thoroughly 'tailed'. 

Hermione rarely let the donkey out of her sight after that. The shock had been too great. 

If it hadn't been for school, she probably wouldn't have stopped. And in fact he had accompanied her to classes for quite some time in her oversized book bag, useful things that can hide a multitude of sins, or simply cache a favourite plush toy. That continued until Sheila Boese had spotted the bit of fleece in Hermione's bag one day and teased her mercilessly. Thereafter Hermione sadly left her little friend at home, but she hugged him goodbye every morning, hello every afternoon, and clutched him to her chest relentlessly every night. That she fairly squeezed the living daylights out of him in the process should go without saying. 

All of which is currently relevant as it serves to help establish her bonafides, suitably documenting her years of experience in the clasping things unwaveringly as she sleeps department.

* * *

  


His dreams that night are far sight less erotic in tone than they had been the night before. Tomorrow he'll decide it had to do with not focusing on sex nearly as much as he had yesterday. Perhaps he's now grown used to the notion of celibacy, as one does over the course of a single day, or maybe it was a perfectly reasonable response as he'd been tortured that evening. It hardly matters. Why he stopped thinking about it, that is. Torture still irritates him. Significantly. 

It won't occur to him that the Calming Draughts in _her_ system made a difference, but then he hadn't been conscious when she took them. 

He _does_ picture her in the swimming suit she mentioned more often than he'd like. Therein, of course, lies much of his relief that the dreams themselves were tamer than the previous night's. He'd _known_ when she spoke of it, damn her amber eyes, that it would worm it's way into his subconsciousness, and it doesn't disappoint. In any regard. It helps, naturally, that the swimsuit model is such an attractive witch, not that _that_ was what he had meant by 'not disappointing'. 

It's not a coincidence that the suit is _always_ black. _His_ colour. Just as it hadn't been a coincidence that the tracksuit bottoms he'd Transfigured her knickers into that morning were also black. He could explain covering her up. Easily. Not that he'd wish to. _Explain_. He _definitely_ wanted to cover her up. But there had been no excuse for modifying the colour. 

Sometimes she reappears in that... whatever it was from that morning, and instead of putting her back in the tracksuit, he Transfigures her whole skimpy ensemble black. The brilliant thing about dreams, of course, is he doesn't have to justify them to anyone else. And he's probably not even going to bother trying to justify them to himself. As it's doomed to fail, it will save him a good deal of effort. 

But easily half the time she makes an appearance, he Transfigures her clothing into something larger and more shapeless. _Far_ more shapeless. He's not some perv after all. But wherever he finds himself, whatever he dreams, she eventually appears. She interrupts a fair few of his nightmares, fortunately enough. On nights like these, they tend to be numerous. And she represents a very welcome change. 

For some reason he's dreaming of them in a field of wild flowers. Now that he's freed her from the chair, that damn chair, healed her lip, repaired her clothing and then... helped her into something that vaguely resembles a very thick burlap sack, he sets to trying to stun the Knarls so they can collect what's needed. The little witch naturally insists that's cruel. Of course. But that's how it's always been done, and he's quite sure that stunning isn't cruel in the least, but then this is a dream and needn't make sense. She then Summons a flute from her bag and pipes a ditty and soon every Knarl in the field is dancing to her tune. He futilely tries to argue that's not how it works, and she smiles and tells him it's _magic_. 

Obviously. 

It would _almost_ make sense, except he can't explain why he smells lavender with bee balm, or why the lavender is growing beside the cornflower. They require different ground conditions, different moisture levels, and this field isn't making a great deal of sense. 

The witch, of course, assures him that it doesn't need to. He imagines her answer is doubtlessly 'magic'. But instead she tells him nothing else is of consequence, just as long as he gets some rest. 

Try as he might, he fails to think of a valid objection.

* * *

  


Smiling, Hermione wakes slowly from dreams of the Professor introducing her to new Potions ingredients in that field of wild flowers. That might have sent everyone else in the student body scurrying for the hills, but it's _her_ idea of a good dream. A very _nice_ dream. She feels good for the first time in months, _safe_ for the first time in possibly years. She's... content. Given the Draught still in her system, she must be very content indeed. 

It's unusual for her to wake so slowly. Her transition from sleeping to waking is usually much quicker, but she's too sleepy to notice. She snuggles her stuffed toy clasped firmly in both of her hands a little closer to her chest, planting a drowsy kiss on him before pulling him to rest against her lips, giving him a nuzzle and then propping her nose on his head, inhaling deeply. The scent brings her even more comfort. 

She untwines one of her hands and extends it slightly in front of her until it comes to rest against... something. Warm, soft. Solid. Her fingers splay on the surface, tracing idly, fractionally back and forth. She smiles more broadly and prepares to drift off again when suddenly she's snuggled back. 

Her brain is beginning to catch up with her. Her donkey simply isn't large enough to be pressed to her chest and somehow perceptible on top of her head. And naturally he's incapable of snuggling. He also lacks fingers, and she had had to untangle hers from more fingers than she alone possesses. And he hasn't got a very muscular chest...

One eye snaps open, as though keeping the other shut could ward off whatever calamity looms, and she recognises it's the Professor nuzzling the top of her head and she has one of her hands pressed to his bare chest and her fingertips are running gently over his scars and she still has one of his hands gripped ferociously in one of hers and... she's apparently just kissed those long fingers of his.  
  


She freezes, more thoroughly than were she placed in a Full-body Bind, as she tries to determine how to handle it. She. Does. Not. Move. She hardly dares _breathe_. She desperately needs to swallow the lump in her throat, but she's frankly too busy bricking it. 

It takes a minute for the panic to recede and her thoughts to coalesce. Probably that's how long it takes for the blood to get out of her ears, where her pulse is pounding most audibly, and back into her brain where it's doing her much more good. 

First, she realises she's somehow worked her way, at least halfway anyhow, onto his bed. 

It takes another moment to regain control over her thinking after that realisation. 

Her location is particularly puzzling as the arm of her chair as well as its height were impediments to any such movement on her part. Except her chair is somehow now higher and the arm is simply... gone. Vanished. There's time to worry about that later, but in the back of her mind, she's a little worried she must have Transfigured the chair in her sleep. She's not sure, of course, but it seems sort of like the unintentional magic from her childhood. That's not _at all_ embarrassing. Or compromising. Or worrisome. 

Or not much, anyway, with the double dose of Calming. Later will probably be a Thestral of a different colour.

Regardless _how_ she got there, her upper body is no longer in her chair, and their heads are touching. Obviously. How else could he have snuggled her. She _really_ is responding sluggishly. Holy Cricket. He's not going to be pleased about this in the least. 

And then, in a timely fashion, she remembers he won't wake until much later and breathes a sigh of relief. 

In a somewhat shameful response to that realisation, she's briefly tempted to take advantage, scoot over completely and snuggle in further. Possibly wrapping those long arms around her like a living, breathing comforter. In her defence, she's still quite groggy, and this is the best sleep she's had in a _very_ long time. Still, she remains sufficiently in command of her faculties to recognise that wouldn't be acceptable in the least. Especially not given some of their individual experiences. And she adamantly doesn't want to take anything from him that he isn't willing to give. 

Her ego isn't the most robust, and her confidence is a highly variable thing. She probably can't help herself, and it occurs to her that he found bonding her disgusting, _revolting_ , which doesn't help. Or _does_ , in as much as it halts any notion of forward progress. That's probably for the best, but it _is_ a pity that it comes at that price. It robs her of some of the contentment she'd had. But far from all. 

He seems _really_ at peace; the lines in his face have smoothed, as has the furrow between his eyebrows. He looks a decade younger. Or more. There's actually a faint smile on his face, and maybe, she has to wonder, _maybe_ there's some truth to what Madam Pomfrey said about the benefits of touch.  
  


Hermione eventually decides it would be defensible to hold position. She'll take the comfort currently provided, but no more. She hadn't done this deliberately, and she concludes it would be alright to remain there, as is, as long as she goes no further. She avoids thinking overmuch about how she would guarantee _that_ , given she hadn't intended to do even _this_. But she's certain, she shouldn't like to take advantage. 

As though _that_ would make a difference once she's deep asleep or would impede her slumberous advance.  
  


He's sort of a human furnace, which is perfectly lovely against the chill of the room, that she oddly hadn't noticed before. The lack of sleep must be affecting her in more ways than she'd thought. She keeps her hand flush against his chest. She tells herself it's because she's afraid removing it might wake him, which makes no sense, and because it acts as a natural spacer, which is in fact true. 

Well, that's at least one thing she got right. 

Trying not to move her fingers too much against him, and yet very aware of just how many scars she can feel beneath her hand, she closes her eyes and nods off again, confident she'll wake before him and get out of the compromising position before he catches her in it.  
  


With the Potion in him, he _really_ isn't the one she needs to worry about, but her rest remains unperturbed by such thoughts, and the smile on his face might just have broadened.

* * *

  


Severus isn't the only one smiling, which becomes apparent, not that anyone else is awake to see it, when Sunny shimmers into view in the corner of the room in the lee of the cupboard. 

He'd been a little stumped when the Mistress didn't respond to the strands of hair Sunny had magicked into the Master's face. The Matron _always_ does. _She_ can't resist. But the Mistress appears to be a whole different story. She had just lain there _staring_ at them. It became so hard to watch, Sunny almost had to magic them back; he really couldn't stand the sight of it. He was quite proud of himself, in fact, that he _hadn't_. 

Sunny hadn't been at all sure where to go from there; he's fond of the tried and true. Merlin knows he's tried _that_ ruse often enough... That was until Mistress fell asleep and he'd had an idea. 

Transfiguring her chair seems to have worked a treat. And dropping the temperature, just a little, hadn't been half bad for an after thought. 

Smiling quite happily, he Conjures himself a blanket of his own, and Disillusions himself again and curls up in his corner to get some sleep, an elfen ward in place to watch over both his humans.

  



	61. 11 11a Tuesday - Early Morning in the Infirmary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Poppy, Hermione, Sunny, Severus (inert, but fluffy), Nurse Wanda Wainscott, Ron, Dean_

Very early the next morning, Poppy once again enters the private room to find the couple still sharing the blanket and the young witch still holding her bondmate's hand. He doesn't seem to have let go either, judging by how their fingers are interwoven. The sight makes her smile. Poppy's willingness to do so increases when no one is around to see. _That_ naturally fails to take invisible house elves into account, not entirely unreasonably, and helps explain why _they_ sometimes have a better understanding of the likes and dislikes of some of the humans in the castle than the other humans do. 

But, generally, no one gives them a second thought. 

There's fortunately no trace of anything odd about Hermione's chair. She probably couldn't have taken the embarrassment. Not without a Draught, anyway. When he heard the Matron up and about, Sunny had lowered the chair slowly, and so very carefully, until Hermione was gently pulled back into it by gravity and the weight of her lower body, not that Sunny would have shied away from a Mobilicorpus had he felt it necessary. 

Humans aren't always in agreement with elves about the 'necessity' of things, but that rarely gives elves pause. 

Or humans, either, for that matter. 

It _is_ , however, a fairly common trait in elves that they would greatly prefer to apologise than to ask for permission, which helps explain that lack of hesitation. 

Actually, _that's_ not an uncommon trait in humans _either_. Admittedly in _their_ cases it has next to nothing to do with their decisions to act despite the absence of any agreement with the elves as _to_ those actions. 

As stated, the two cultures _have_ their differences. Frequently.  
  


Once Hermione was safely back in the seat, Sunny had simply Transfigured the chair's arm back into its original place and shape, only having to give their clasped hands a slight magical nudge or two to make room for it. Poppy has no idea the seat had been altered between her visits, and no one other than the elf and Hermione will ever know.

Hermione, it should go without saying, will be left wondering if she undid the Transfiguration in her sleep, _too_.  
  


Poppy approaches the two bondmates, runs her diagnostic checks, proactively, cautiously, on _both_ , and decides the witch will probably be able to face the day with a single Calming Draught. Had she better anticipated what would be waiting for her, she'd have quickly rethought that decision. 

Severus is much improved, Poppy's extremely pleased to see. He's doing surprisingly well, all considered, given his condition the previous night. The problem, she decides, is that his _overall_ condition is so _poor_ these days, and he's never given a chance to just _heal_ , so that comparatively small amounts of damage... 

She immediately revises that, the damage done to him was never ' _small_ '. But things he previously used to be able to take easily, he no longer _can_ faced with the sum of the burden. Those people are systematically killing him, slowly but surely. 

And she's not sure she doesn't include Albus in their number.

She doesn't expect Severus to wake for several hours, yet, but she thinks he might actually be back in class tomorrow, if only because he's _that_ stubborn, though. She's trying to think what she'd like to do for - or more precisely: _to_ \- him while he can't object. A couple of Nutritive Potions seem wise. A Restorative. More Salve for his scars. Some Strengthening Potion is a clear choice, poor lamb. Antispasmodic is sadly still necessary. She's debating the merits of a Calming Draught - if so, she would have to administer those two separately - when the younger woman stirs and wakes.

"Madam Pomfrey!" Hermione seems a little startled, and apparently feeling as though caught red-handed, she tries to snatch that hand from the Professor's, forgetting entirely who had told her to hold _his_ in the first place. She has some difficulty working her fingers free; he seems intent on not relinquishing his hold on them. That might have made her smile were she not so busy panicking. Their involuntary struggle only draws _more_ attention to the hand clasping, but Hermione is eventually successful, and then lies there looking an almost comical drowsy mix of glum, guilty and sheepish. 

Poppy wordlessly emphasises what she thinks about the matter by retaking her seat from the previous evening on the opposite side of the bed, and once again placing Severus' hand in her own. A wave of her wand soon has the young woman's seat back to its original chair shape, and her sitting upright and trying to arrange the blanket around herself inconspicuously, so as not to call attention as well to the fact they'd been sharing it. It's a hopelessly lost cause. A pointed look at Severus' free hand shortly after, paired with a slight moue of rebuke from the Matron, soon has the still sleepy witch taking his right hand again. Poppy bites back a smile at how easily that works. 

Sunny, still invisible in his corner, doesn't bother suppressing his.  
  


"How is he?" Madam Snape seems very eager to know. _Concerned_. Poppy approves. Sunny agrees.

"Better than expected," she tells her, still not answering the question sufficiently. "I credit the care."

For Hermione, that was never in question. But she's more than willing to say so if it satisfies the woman. "Almost certainly. I don't know what we'd do without you," she tells her with complete conviction.

Poppy lets out a huff of amusement, appreciating the 'we' and knowing full well she still has the younger woman on tenterhooks as to his condition, and as such, commands her attention. She's not above using that to her patient's advantage. "I meant your continued presence and the physical contact." Predictably, Madam Snape pales at that and begins to snatch her hand away. 

" _Don't stop_ ," the Mediwitch commands. And just like that, Hermione hesitates, and in doing so, continues as before. "I'm not being facetious. I have more than enough experience, even just with _this_ patient _alone_ , to be confident in saying it makes a _difference_.

"Don't let go. He _needs_ people who care about his welfare." The young witch blushes, but doesn't try to remove her hand again. Poppy decides it was probably the best result she could have coaxed from her, and finally gives her the update on his prognosis.  
  


The apprehension very visible on the young witch's face is a relief. Poppy knows full well a substantial part of the motivation is guilt; she's not delusional, and she'd _listened_. Madam Snape had expressed that all too clearly. But first and foremost, that concern means she's _invested_ in his well-being, and that's a good basis, a _necessary_ basis. For both of them, whether they know it or not.

And the news Poppy has for her goes a long way to allaying her fears.

* * *

  


Catching the Mediwitch glancing towards the blanket, Hermione hastens to explain, "I hoped it might help him sleep better..." Which naturally doesn't explain why they were _sharing_. Poppy finds herself again struggling not to smile. Sunny still doesn't have that problem, but he _does_ need to cast another Charm so they won't hear him laugh. 

As if sensing the woman's thoughts, Hermione tries expanding on her justification. "It seemed to help me, and he was sleeping uneasily, so I thought it was worth trying on him. And I Imperviused it, because of the Salve..."

Poppy assures her that isn't a problem. "The issue, if any at all, is that it reduces the efficacy of the Salve," the guilty look instantly reappears on Hermione's face, and now the Matron permits herself a soft smile to reassure her. "Put your mind at ease. By and large, it's probably safe to say the benefits from a good night's rest were more than worth it. 

"It seems to have done you both some good, and I'm quite satisfied with the results." She waves her wand in a diagnostic flourish demonstratively, indicating which results she _might_ mean, but Hermione correctly suspects those aren't the only ones she's referring to. 

"I'd like for you to have the blanket, if you'd care to. I think you both have more use for it than I do." Her tone is as matter-of-fact as possible. The blanket is a rare and beneficial blend, a very valuable piece handed down from her own grandmother, on her mother's side, but Poppy is simply incapable of couching her offer in less practical terms. It's just her way. She suspects these two have had nothing but grief in response to their bond, and feels something pleasant is well overdue. She sees it as her contribution to their cause. 

"Oh, Madam Pomfrey! I couldn't!" Her fingers can't help stroking the marvellously soft blanket draped around her as she says it, belying her words. They, at least, _very_ much _could_. 

"Nonsense. Think of it as a wedding present." That shuts Hermione up rather abruptly; Poppy had thought it might. Again she finds herself trying not to smile and thinking the young woman makes her do that rather frequently. She should be very good for Severus if she has a similar effect on him. Merlin knows, the poor man could use something to smile about. 

"There now. That's settled." Poppy resumes her stroking of Severus' hand. 

"Thank you. Thank you _very much_ , Madam Pomfrey. That's _incredibly_ kind of you," Hermione replies, looking tentatively somewhat shyly pleased, but mostly just out of her depth.  
  


But Poppy also has a couple of ideas bouncing around her head she thinks might be beneficial, and for a Hufflepuff, she's surprisingly adept at using a situation to her advantage to further her goals if she deems them adequately benign and _worthy_. Almost casually, she asks, "Shall I teach you a few other things? To help?"

'Teach' is very much _the_ magic word for Hermione, 'help' might be a close second, and she's nodding even before she has time to process the question more fully. 

In the next half an hour, demonstrating on the Professor, the Matron shows her how to cast a Strengthening Charm and follows it with the Refreshing Charm, the one that makes his hair briefly 'poof' and Hermione giggle. She just can't help herself, it's too ridiculous, although some of it's simply nerves. Still. _Professor Snape_ with a cloud of _fluffed up hair_... It makes him look like Ginny's Pygmy Puff. In black. And grumpy. And life sized. Well, not for a Pygmy Puff, obviously. 

Poppy smiles, too, at her response. Performing the Charms as often as she does, she doesn't always register what they actually _do_ anymore; she's too focused on the _purpose_ , the final result. It's nice, sometimes, seeing things through someone else's eyes.

And truthfully, they're both just so relieved that Severus is out of the woods, that they're finally able to relax a little. It makes for a pleasant change of pace. 

As she had over the weekend, Hermione casts the first several attempts on herself, both witches unwilling to chance worsening his condition with a miscast. She has an exceptionally good eye for wand strokes, always has, and of course a phenomenal memory, and is typically able to recreate the things she sees performed with great accuracy. She's never had some of the problems with incorrect casts many of her classmates had. _And_ of course she studies like a woman possessed. She's swotty that way. 

No, where her primary problem lies is in the _strength_ of her casting, her _conviction_. Sometimes, she's just too timid. No one's perfect. It's why Harry easily outpaced her in their DADA O.W.L.s, for all her studying. Sheer willpower may not compensate for not learning spells properly, but it's _crucial_ , and hers simply couldn't match his, at least not in that course. 

Admittedly, knowing the darkest wizard of their time was after him _personally_ proved highly motivating for Harry, at least as far as his _determination_ was concerned. He'd have happily taken a lower mark if it meant he no longer faced that particular incentivising threat. But he's still not fond of mugging up on his course work, and if he _has_ to hit the books, he'd rather do it with a hex. 

Or a shoe, in a pinch. 

Some books might actually warrant it.  
  


Hermione is having no issues with her intent today. She _very_ much wants to help the Professor recover as quickly as he can, and it shows. 

She masters the spells quickly, first one, then the other. By the time she's finished learning the Refreshing Charm, her hair seems to have taken on a life of its own. If she thought the Professor looked funny when it was done to him... Well, her hair is a good deal longer, and now standing almost completely on end. Even long _after_ the Charm is done. It's a good thing there are no mirrors present. 

Poppy takes pity and casts a quick Charm to rectify at least _some_ of that, but there's no denying the witch is quite a bit... bushier before they're finished. 

Again the Matron offers herself as a test subject once Hermione seems to have the basics grasped. Only when she performs them satisfactorily is she permitted to apply them to the Professor. The Refreshing Charm is apparently yet another variation on the Tergeo and proves easy. Repeated applications, however, leave his hair, too, exceedingly... fluffed. She's rather hoping Madam Pomfrey can sort that before he wakes and notices; she'd proven a deft hand at hair taming, after all. As recently as minutes ago, not that Hermione had noticed. 

The Strengthening Charm is unlike anything Hermione knows, and she applies it to him quite a number of times to make sure she has it down, and has helped him as it _should_. She's concerned it will be too weak, and with the Matron's approval, simply keeps redoing it, hoping the sum of the Charms will compensate for any lack of potency in her spell.

Hermione is about to try again when it belatedly occurs to her to ask, "Can it be applied _too often_?" 

Poppy doesn't even bother trying to hold back her snort. _Had_ that been an issue, it most certainly _would_ have been an issue by _now_. 

"It used to be that it was illegal in Quidditch to cast a spell on members of the opposing team. But there was no such rule about one's own team. No substitutions for the players are permitted, no matter _how_ injured," her disapproval of _that_ rule is exceedingly obvious, "and when it drags on for some time and the players begin to flag..." She shrugs. 

"In 1849, there was an incident at a Quidditch bout where several hundred fans of one team applied the Strengthening Charm to a wounded member of their team more or less in unison."

"I take it that wasn't good?" Hermione asks, her wand poised before casting the Charm again. 

"Well, he roughly doubled in height, octupled in weight, his broom couldn't take it and he dropped like a stone and broke his ankle. Now why any of them didn't then cast an Arresto Momentum is anyone's guess, they'd been only too quick to cast before, but perhaps he was too heavy. 

"When the Healers couldn't reverse it, his size, not the ankle break, the wizard eventually had to go live with the Giants. But he _did_ stop flagging, so it wasn't a complete failure." Hermione wonders again at the woman's optimistic take. 

"Afterwards they changed that rule of course. No spells whatsoever or they forfeit the bout." 

"Quidditch 'bout'?" Hermione teases, echoing her question from the previous night, her mood vastly buoyed by the improvements to the Professor's condition and the early morning spellwork. "You make it sound like a _sickness_." 

Madam Pomfrey recognises the question immediately and smiles at the younger woman, quite sharing her sentiments. "Isn't it?" She replies, not missing her cue. "Afterwards they actually held memorial services for the man's _broom_." The Mediwitch sounds _scandalised_. 

Hermione smiles in return. They're of a mind in this. She thinks about it a moment and then opting to tease the Matron some more proceeds, "I'm sorry, I have to ask... So you call a Quidditch 'match' a 'bout', but you know the _exact_ year the rules were changed?" 

"Oh, my dear! I couldn't give a flying fig about Quidditch, through the ages or just this past week. I know the date because that was _medical history_."

"Oh, of course." It obviously wasn't what Hermione expected, but she immediately sees the logic in that. She feels a little slow. She's not used to having to keep up with people. Or having people show an interest in anything _but_ Quidditch, for that matter. "I can see where it would be."

"It took no less than a dozen Healers to try to sort the ankle alone. Just for a relatively straightforward break. Imagine! A break like that, on a wizard of regular size, all it should have required was a simple Episkey. No, they had to create the Episkey Maximo Trio _right there on the spot_ before it took, and _still_ needed multiple casters. That's hardly something one forgets." 

"No, I could see where one wouldn't," she has to agree. Her attention returns to the issue at hand. "So _how many_ spells were _too many_?"

"Well, after poor McCutchen was effectively exiled to the Giants, for their sins, you can imagine they weren't eager to test that precisely, but I am quite sure it's more than you're ever likely to be able to spell in a single go. You'd more likely keel over from exhaustion before causing any harm. It _was_ an entire stadium section, after all. That _does_ seem a rather ambitious task to match."

"So I can keep going then?" Hermione asks, waving her wand in the direction of the Professor's recumbent form. 

"Have at it, Madam Snape. You have my blessings." 

And she does.

* * *

  


As Hermione works, Madam Pomfrey, seeking to cheer her further, tells her about yesterday's Gryffindor invasion. She's _almost_ careful to avoid names, patient confidentiality and such, but the descriptions do the job well enough, and having lived with them for the last several years and had them in the vast majority of her classes, Hermione's quickly able to guess the players in the piece. 

The miscast Silencio in particular tickles her fancy. "That's something Seamus learned _fifth_ year!" She objects with some amusement. That amusement holds until she tries to picture Ron stuffing an over-sized mouth with food. Perhaps a whole chicken? The image proves disturbing. Given her experiences the past couple of days, _that_ choice of adjectives says something. _Everything_ , really.

"Yes, well I gather Mr... the young man in question learnt the Silencio under more favourable conditions. Those Weasley Pastilles... They should be banned." The Mediwith shakes her head in disapproval. 

"I rather thought they were..." Hermione points out.

"Oh, not just from _school_ , from _production_. If they weren't produced, they couldn't be smuggled in. And there's only so much poor Argus can do to stop the influx."

Hermione's inclined to agree that she can't envision a _legitimate_ purpose for the things. Beyond increasing Fred's and George's profit margin, that is. But then she's been reliably assured she's a bit of a pill, so she isn't sure her opinion on the matter is particularly relevant. 

Fred and George would readily agree, and they actually _like_ the witch.  
  


A little nervously, Hermione tries to ask about something that's been weighing on her since yesterday morning. She'd probably be better off if she could let it go, but she can't, and people don't always do what's best for themselves. "I understand Draco Malfoy was in the Infirmary yesterday..."

"I'm sure I couldn't say a thing about Mr. Malfoy, one way or another..." Hermione's face instantly falls, and she worries that might be a rebuke. But Madam Pomfrey knows _exactly_ why the younger woman wants to know about _that_ specific Slytherin. She understands all too well and is disposed to share the information, such as she can, with her. 

"But it might interest you to know your husband made an extremely lucky catch of one of his students in the vicinity of the Grand Staircase Sunday night. From a seven story drop. Truly a remarkable bit of good fortune, so _providential_ he was on rounds. I gather _his_ Arresto Momentum was quite artfully applied." Hermione barely manages not to point out it must have been a 'Duo'. It _is_ a slight struggle. 

Just as well, though. It was in fact a Arresto Momentum _Trio_ that Severus had created himself years before in answer to some issues on the Quidditch pitch. With Potter, no less. Still, he hadn't actually _needed_ it yet until Sunday. Back then, Albus occasionally seemed to respond to a threat himself. In the good old days, as they were. 

"I imagine the injuries from such a fall would be extensive..." Hermione prompts instead. 

"I imagine they _would_ be. And if I had spent the weekend telling a patient's Housemates that I didn't have any Pain Relieving Potion, then I would have difficulty explaining how I suddenly had some Sunday night, when our Potions Master had been in the Infirmary all weekend as they perfectly well know."

"No!" A hand claps to her mouth as the grin spreads across Hermione's face. She wonders if she's become bloodthirsty. She suspects the grin answers _that_ rather concisely. But the Matron understands that impulse, too. 

"And I further suppose, having fallen from such a height, that there would be quite a number of broken bones, and I'd have no recourse but to offer a Stupefy as I set them. Typically, those are declined."

Hermione finds herself trying to fight back a giggle. She can't quite decide if her response is utterly _wrong_ or _right_. And then she gives herself a break and decides either way she's _entitled_. "How many Episkeys... do you _imagine_ it would take..."

"I imagine it could take at least eight Episkeys to set such a person to rights. And the only person I know to hold still for back to back Episkeys _without_ Pain Relief or a Stupefy is Severus. So I suppose treatment would take quite some time."

"Eight! Now that's a thing..." It's no good pretending. Hermione knows beyond a doubt she's become bloodthirsty. And she's apparently _parched_ to go by her thirstiness. Oh, well. There's probably nothing to be done for it. With no other choice apparent, she drinks it in. 

"And recovering from _that_ could take the better part of a day," Poppy finishes the story. 

"I suppose it would. Crikey. 

"Thank you, Madam Pomfrey. I appreciate it. Greatly." Frankly, she appreciates both her handling of Malfoy, and her relating of it. Hermione gathers that isn't supposed to be explicitly stated. But the Matron seems to have a good understanding of what's going on and what she might really mean, and she leaves it at that.  
  


Hermione has to wonder at the change that's come over her. This doesn't seem like her, _savouring_ the story of a classmate's misery. Even _that_ classmate. She can be harsh, maybe even ruthless, she won't try denying it. But she's never just thrilled to hear of another's pain. Had the events of Friday changed her so?

But they _hadn't_. Not _really_. 

Less than twenty-four hours ago she had been worried about, almost _panicked_ by what had happened to Malfoy. _She'd_ admonished _Ron_ for laughing about it. Well, granted, that had occurred mostly in her mind, but _some_ admonishment had taken place. And she'd gotten shirty and considered looking at him crossly. That last probably shouldn't count. Ah. She _had_ called him 'Ronald'. _And_ corrected him. Although, both of those things happen often enough as to be rendered nearly meaningless... 

But _this_ morning _she's_ sitting there trying not to chortle at hearing how Malfoy had _suffered_. It helps, naturally, that she had seen with her own eyes that he was back to his usual despicable ferrety self already by dinner yesterday. That she knew _for a fact_ it hadn't had long term consequences for him. 

And what had it taken to bring about this change in her? A single evening? Is she that inconstant? 

_Unstable_?

 _She_ hadn't even been the one _maltreated_. 

But what she experienced through the bond... What they had done to the Professor... _That_ may have changed her irrevocably. 

What had she asked the Professor? Just last night? ' _Was it necessary to be so harsh?_ ' That seems a lifetime ago. The answer was clearly ' _yes_ '. Even she sees it now. They're playing for vastly different stakes, and she doesn't understand the rules. She's half convinced she hadn't even been playing the same game until now.  
  


She's believes she's, _they're_ , in the right here, but she's still not comfortable with some of the changes she senses in herself. Seeking external confirmation that she hasn't completely lost her way, she somewhat hesitantly asks the Mediwitch, "You don't blame us for..." But she can't say _what_ , precisely, not without acknowledging their blame. Their guilt. She's not quite ready to do that yet. 

"Madam Snape, you're forgetting. I was _here_ Friday when you both came in. 

"When you returned last night, there were no other Slytherins in the Infirmary. It is accurate to say _nothing_ happened Sunday evening that I couldn't put _completely_ to rights in under a day. I doubt the same can be said for either of you in the wake of Friday. 

"I know three things. I _don't_ begin to understand what he has to face or how he does it." She silently Charms the Professor's hair back into a more manageable state and tucks that wayward strand behind his ear as she speaks. Sunny nods his invisible approval. "I _trust_ him not to go too far. And I believe a good many people could understand your... response, and find it _justified_.

"If it helps, I count myself among them. I had a hard time bringing myself to treat the... _boy_ when Severus brought him in."

That actually helps _greatly_. Hermione gives the Mediwitch a watery smile, her thanks and relief co-mingling on her face. She hadn't realised until the Matron said it how important it was to her to have her sanction. 

Hermione believes herself to basically be a _good_ person, but some of her reactions are making her doubt that. After everything else, the last thing she needs is a crisis of identity, and yet it seems unavoidable. The truth is, she's changing. Perhaps it won't all be for the better, but the simple fact that there's change doesn't mean it's all for the worse, either. _What_ it is remains to be seen.  
  


"Now," Madam Pomfrey rallies, "that's quite enough of that. What do you say we do something more productive?"

She Summons the Potions she had selected and shows the younger witch how to administer one. 

"This is a Nutritive Potion. As he's unconscious, effectively dysphagic, unable to swallow on his own, we need to administer it for him. You need to open his mouth, like so, tilt his head back and slowly pour the potion in, you see? Massaging his throat as you go with your free hand to help him trigger his swallowing reflex. It helps, actually, if the potion is cold, in order to trigger the response. Do you follow so far?" Hermione nods and the witch continues. 

"A delayed swallow response can lead to aspiration, that would be if he were to _inhale_ the Potions instead, which makes the manual massage an _incredibly_ important precaution." At 'aspiration' Hermione pales again and begins to wonder what she thinks she's playing at there. The Charms had seemed safe, but this...

The Matron reaches over and retrieves two familiar looking identical phials. She hands one to Hermione, "This is Calming Draught. This one's for you," Hermione takes it with a nod and quaffs it as the witch continues explaining. "The other is for him, but for later."

She hands her the rest and tells her to give it a try. "You can do this," the Mediwitch assures her with a solemn nod as she takes up the Scarcefying Salve and begins to treat his scars again. 

Hermione is neither sure she can nor _should_. She can't imagine _he'd_ appreciate her having done so. But it's... safer than applying the Salve, and she's excellent at rationalising when the need arises, and she tells herself she's learning a useful skill and helping the Matron in the process. Secretly she suspects teaching her is taking much longer than had Madam Pomfrey simply performed the tasks herself. But she grabs the next Potion and takes up position mirroring the Mediwitch at the Professor's other side. 

"That's his Restorative Potion," Madam Pomfrey explains. Hermione administers it just as directed, very nervously massaging the Professor's throat as she goes, and is quite floored when it comes off completely free of mishap. 

Hermione suspects it's dumb luck. 

She's underestimating the value of having an experienced coach at her side. 

One by one, Hermione takes the phials and administers the Potions. Madam Pomfrey explains what each is in turn and why they're called for, but when she gets to the last and the Matron tells her it's the Strengthening Potion, Hermione stops. She wants to know _why_ they're giving it to him, in light of the Charm they'd just applied. As the young woman was practicing, rather _frequently_ , in fact. 

"If we have a choice, and we do here, it is preferable to give him the Potion. It's stronger. There are many results that it's far better to achieve with a Potion than a Charm, and a surprising number that can't be achieved at all with Charms."

"So _why_ did we apply the Charm _first_?"

Poppy gives her a gentle smile, "So you could learn." 

Hermione has a flash of panic that her learning is detrimental to the Professor's health, but Madam Pomfrey's smile is somehow soft and encouraging, and she tries to get her feelings under control and _listen_ to the Mediwitch. 

"He _wasn't_ at risk," she assures Hermione, and she finds herself believing it completely. "I was quite serious, last night. I will _never_ permit you to do something I believe would harm him. But it's a very good lesson for you to have learned. You haven't always got the Potion to hand, and even if you do, you can't always administer it directly or in combination with other Potions. Sometimes you need to prioritise, and then it's good to know the Charm."

Hermione wonders if it isn't lonely, sometimes, being the School Nurse. The Matron certainly seems quite willing to teach her these things if she's willing to learn. Perhaps it's the isolation of the Infirmary. Unlike the other teachers, she doesn't exactly see people all that regularly. With the possible exception, a mutinous part of her brain feels the need to add, of her bondmate... 

She considers if being a teacher is that much better, as the people they spend the vast majority of their time with are hardly individuals they'd have social interactions with... And then she wonders what that means for her bonding, given where they fall on the opposing sides of that divide.  
  


Her thoughts about the isolation of the Infirmary get an adjustment when a short time later Nurse Wainscott comes bustling in and asks Poppy if she'd like to take a break for breakfast now, as she's here to replace her. 

Hermione realises with a start that it's a Tuesday morning and classes will be beginning soon. She casts a Tempus and jumps up with a shocked squeak, folds her blanket over the chair, quickly performs a Cleaning Charm on her clothes, she's still in the outfit from the previous evening, and the Dentifricium and Cleansing Charms on herself, although the last leaves her hair in even stranger disarray, and with a hurried, "I'll stop back before classes start," makes a dash from the room. 

"I thought she was all better..." Wanda Wainscott asks Poppy as the young witch runs past her. 

Sunny watches her go and determines to continue invisibly holding down the fort in her absence. He doesn't plan to leave his post until the Master wakes. Well, unless the Mistress calls for him. But he'd prefer to keep watch where he is. Especially given Mistress' ginger beastie running free back in quarters. 

"I fear she has a ways to go yet," Poppy answers as they return to the main room, not meaning her physical condition, and then gestures back to Severus' room. "He certainly does." 

Poppy decides if Wanda had to ask about Hermione's presence, she probably isn't aware of the bonding yet. That must make her about the only one left in the castle. Merlin. She'll have to fill her in after breakfast, but just to be on the safe side, as the doors fall to behind Madam Snape, she tells her colleague, "She'll probably be back later. Please don't chase her off if she returns." 

Mindful of possibly listening young ears, she adds, "And she has permission to visit our patient in the private room," avoiding any mention of names. Would that Wanda Wainscott were so circumspect. 

Now that Poppy gives it some thought, she realises a little foolishly, Wanda's ignorance of the bondings was a logical consequence of her having remained in the Infirmary yesterday to keep watch over the Malfoy rotter while Poppy had attended the staff meeting. Poppy just hadn't been able to bring herself to spend more time caring for him than absolutely necessary. 

As the announcements hadn't been news to _her_ , she hadn't thought to pass them on, and then they'd gotten distracted with a Transfigurations malheur, followed shortly by a major Charms disaster. 

DADA, interestingly enough, hasn't been providing them with the usual number of catastrophic spell misfires this year. She isn't sure if that means Professor Taylor is _that_ good, or the course is _that_ useless. If the past years are anything to go by, most likely the latter. Poppy isn't altogether certain if she should welcome that or not, and then decides she can, given she's the School Nurse, and not an educator. Still...

She calls for the Infirmary house elf Polly and asks her to fetch their two remaining Gryffindors some food. With a smile firmly in place, she Leviosas the trays over to their beds and with an arc of her wand shifts their privacy screens aside so they can now see the rest of the room. "Good Morning, gentlemen. I have your breakfasts."

Ron perks visibly at the mention of something, _anything_ edible. He _really_ should know better. But he hadn't had any dinner last night, and the hexing had robbed him of the chance to visit the kitchens with Harry later in the evening as they'd planned... He's bloody famished. So much greater is his disappointment when 'breakfast' is revealed to be _gruel_. One might think he's never stayed in the Infirmary before. It doesn't speak for his learning curve. Or perhaps he's just that much of an optimist. 

Either way, looking forlornly at the grey gooey mass that runs off his spoon when he gives the stuff a stir, he groans. 

"Porridge," Poppy manages not to grin too broadly. She can see the Weasley boy deflating before her. He rather deserves it, though, for what he'd done to poor Mr. Thomas. Nice lad that. Doesn't go around shoving Puking Pastilles down anyone's throat, at least. Purely by coincidence, Mr. Thomas' porridge contains raisins, a spoonful of brown sugar and a small knob of butter. It's still not great, but it's preferable to his roommate's plate. 

She Summons the Salve for Mr. Thomas and leaves it on his bedside table for Wanda to apply when they're done eating, and the boy turns to her and asks, "Was that Hermione?"

"I'm sure I couldn't say. Patient confidentiality," which she seems perfectly able to get around when it suits, and probably didn't really apply to the woman, given she'd been there more in a visiting capacity anyway. Ah, but then there were the Calming Draughts! There she goes then. All very proper. 

"Bloody well wasn't," Ron grumbles. Ron's humour may have worsened in light of the mention of their Housemate. Or perhaps it really _is_ just because of his breakfast, his priorities being as they are. 

"Eat up, Mr. Weasley. When you've finished your breakfast, you can leave to attend class." 

Initially, that hardly seems to offer _any_ sort of encouragement whatsoever to _try_ the stuff, never mind _finish_ it. Then it dawns on Ron that if he finishes his... gruel, Pomfrey can call it 'porridge' all she likes, that's definitely 'gruel', if he finishes it quickly, he might even be able to make it to the Great Hall for a _real_ breakfast before he has to go to Transfigurations. With that kind of incentive going for him, he digs in to his food with vigour. And maybe even some vim. 

"Sure looked like her," Dean points out. "What I could see through the screens anyway." He waves his spoon at the screens as though Ron hadn't also just spent the night behind them and couldn't guess _exactly_ what he meant. 

"So not very much," Ron grunts around a gummy mouthful of his breakfast and considers the topic settled. "If you're not going to eat that, would you like to trade?"

"No, I'm fine, ta. All good," and Dean pulls one arm protectively around his bowl, having noticed his somehow looks... better than Ron's. Dean rather likes the Matron. Pomfrey can be nice that way for all her bluster.  
  


As Poppy prepares to leave to see to her own breakfast, as usual and _not_ by coincidence _not_ the Infirmary's fare, the doors open to admit two more Slytherins. Mr. Goyle appears to be struggling to support Mr. Crabbe, who seems to be stumbling more than walking as he's escorted into their facility. 

"I'm afraid we still have no Pain Relief, Mr. Crabbe," she tells the boy with something that _almost_ resembles regret. After all, she _had_ played one of the leads in the school's production of 'The Fountain of Fair Fortune' back when she was a student. She's not _completely_ rubbish. "And we shan't have until your Head of House is back on his feet again and has had a chance to brew." At this rate, she's wondering if she'll _ever_ be able to end that ruse. 

If it _does_ become a problem, she supposes she could always claim she had some sent over from St. Mungo's. It probably helps that the injured individuals she's declined to offer it to thus far - Misses Davis and Parkinson _hadn't_ been in any discernible discomfort when they requested it, after all - _all_ have known leanings towards You-Know-Who and his lot. Actually, that helps quite a bit. Particularly as _his_ treatment of Severus is precisely the reason the man couldn't currently be expected to brew. No, _that_ makes it _incredibly_ easy to keep this ruse going. _Indefinitely_ if need be.  
  


"I'll see to him, Poppy," Wanda calls out, and with a word of thanks Poppy heads back for the door. 

She can just hear the boys trying to detail Mr. Crabbe's severe allergy attack from the past night as the doors shut. They hadn't dared come any earlier and risk violating curfew, as their Head of House wasn't in to escort them there. Well, no, he wouldn't have been, would he now, as the man was already in the Infirmary himself, but they naturally had no way of knowing that. Mr. Crabbe is complaining rather angrily and loudly, if wheezily, about Mr. Harper's ginger cat having gotten into his bed. 

Curious. 

It occurs to her that Madam Snape is in possession of a ginger tom of her own. She shouldn't like to point any fingers, of course not, that wouldn't do at all, but familiars _have_ been known to have minds, and agendas, of their own... What had she told Madam Snape? That she believes a good many people could understand her and Severus' response, and find it _justified_. 

That's probably true of cats as well. 

But she shouldn't like to leap to conclusions. With a shake of her head, and a faint smile she shouldn't care to explain, Poppy makes her way to the Great Hall to get a spot of actually _appetising_ breakfast.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PSA: DO _NOT_ POUR POTIONS DOWN UNCONSCIOUS PEOPLE'S THROATS. Please leave that to the qualified Mediwitches. Who, preferably, should be wielding hypos.  
>    
> 
> 
> And along other lines... Somebody out there is cringing about gifting a 'used' blanket. 
> 
> Oh, sweetie, I don't know what to tell you. 
> 
> I grew up with heirloom blankets. _*shrugs*_ Sure, some of that's because it's family, which Poppy technically isn't. (But she's the closest (human) thing Severus has to it really in this story until Hermione steps up.) Sometimes it's sentiment. That does _not_ explain the drawing of lots over down featherbeds or woollen throws. 
> 
> Maybe it's cultural, I don't know. But I _do_ know we weren't alone in this. And I have blankets like that that were handed down completely independently from two different lines of the family (from different countries and cultures) that I _cherish_. In part because they're lovingly used. Ok, sure, and because I freeze easily. ;-)
> 
> Also, quality blankets are the bomb. Just saying... 


	62. 11 11b Tuesday - Good Morning, Minerva

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Minerva, Severus, Hermione, Filius, Pomona, Minny (house elf), mentioned: Hafsa, Kiera and Dhanesh Devi, Peeves, Albus, Sunny, Salome and Zacharias Smith_

Minerva wakes to a clear and beautiful morning. 

It's cold, it's _definitely_ cold, but that's hardly a concern for the witch who has called this part of the world home for most of her life. She's quite used to the nip in the air. And more than capable of casting a Warming Charm if need be. Or a dozen, for that matter. 

There's a smile on her lips that lasts about as long as it takes her to stretch and rise... and remember that five of her charges had spent yesterday evening in the Infirmary. She sighs. Four of them were still there at curfew. She sighs again. 

Those were her favourite seconds of the day. Pity that. It's nice when that lasts longer. It's a sign of the times, really. It used to last minutes, sometimes even hours. 

There's nothing for it. 

She calls for Minny, her house elf, before her feet even touch the floor. She slides into her thick green woollen felt slippers, to gird herself against the chill of the flagstones, as the elf pops into view. 

"Minny, would you be so kind as to check to see how many of my House ended up spending the night in the Infirmary?" 

The elf is gone with a "Yes, Mistress," and another 'pop!' before Minerva even has a chance to slip into her tartan robe. She freshens and makes her bed with a couple swishes of her wand, Summons her teaching robes and is just laying them out on the bed when Minny reappears. 

Albus had thought it amusing to assign her an elf with much the same name as hers. ' _Minny for Min. Or do you suppose it's the other way 'round?_ ' He'd chuckled. 

Sometimes she wonders if Albus renames the elves for the occasion when they're assigned. But with a hundred odd to choose from, perhaps that proves unnecessary. 

Still, it had gone better than when he tasked _Sunny_ with serving Severus back when he first joined the staff - to match the man's _disposition_ , Albus had said, saddling him with the preternaturally cheerful elf. Severus had looked exceedingly dour as it was announced. Minerva could understand the impulse. There'd been no need at all to say as much in front of others - not that she hadn't had to grin, she _had_ taught him for seven years after all - except to have a bit of fun at the man's expense. Not surprisingly, Severus hadn't appreciated it. But then, who does?

By that logic, perhaps she'd been assigned Minny because she herself is so 'small'? If so, that was surely as ironic as Sunny's assignment had been, as Minerva is a very tall and stately woman. But she suspects she could go mad searching for Albus' logic. Particularly of late. 

One of these days someone will seize his sack of sweeties, and then where will the man be? She's holding out hope for either Severus or Peeves doing the honours. Honestly. Albus is worse than the third years back from their first trip to Honeydukes. Probably all of them taken together, even. 

More so lately... It's a little... concerning.  
  


Minny tells her that three of her students had spent the night in the Infirmary, which Minerva takes to mean Filius hadn't been able to put Mr. Devi to rights, but had presumably escorted Madam Devi back to the Tower. Surprisingly close. But then, she _does_ have years of experience going for her. She'll have to have a talk with Mr. Devi's sister and see if she can't bring the young woman to tell them which Charm she used. 

After breakfast then. 

The students are generally more pliable on full stomachs. Sadly that comes at the price of their mental acuity. Still, some days it's worth the trade. In fact, the difference isn't always all that marked, she mentally adds with a grimace. 

It's hard to imagine the Devi girl had found something that had stumped Minerva's diminutive Charms colleague; the lass is hardly known for her industry, and for her academic prowess not at all. But it _has_ been known to happen from time to time. Possibly some Charm she found in a rare and old family tome... Minerva simply hadn't expected it from _that_ quarter. 

That was always a danger with the old families, the bits of knowledge that get passed down, one way or another. Every once and again, that actually provides Filius with a challenge. The Ravenclaw _does_ rather enjoy those. Unless he's required to undo a truly unusual miscast, he hardly has any real challenges since the twins... exmatriculated. She smiles at the thought of the infamous Weasleys and their... leaving. They were enough to make a Head of House proud, irrespective of any academic shortcomings. 

There's much to be said for students with curiosity and a _passion_ for knowledge and discovery. Admittedly, she feels there's more to be said for them when they're well behaved and studious. That's not _technically_ true, as she'd had _all manner_ of things to say about Fred and George precisely because they _weren't_ particularly well behaved, but she probably hadn't meant it that way. Still, their fire, their _enthusiasm_ appealed to her, greatly, either way. 

If worst comes to worst, should Hafsa refuse to cooperate, Minerva might send her to see Albus and have him perform a spot of Legilimency on her. This can't be permitted to go on. 

She thanks and dismisses Minny and sets about getting ready.  
  


When she enters her lounge, still magicking her hair neatly into place as she goes, she's always impeccably coifed, at least when she isn't being stunned from behind by a number of cowardly Aurors or Ministry toadies, she's puzzled to find a note lying for her on her coffee table. She _might_ have overlooked it, but it _is_ glowing rather ostentatiously. Severus would have quite derogatory things to quip about her wards, if things can be placed in her lounge just like that. That is, were he conscious and aware of it. As it is, he has more immediate problems to worry about. Or _would_ , were he conscious and took note of _them_. 

As she unfolds the note - and here again, Severus would be quite scathing that she hadn't bothered to check for... well, _anything_ , really, trusting far too much to the safety of the castle, which the events of Friday should have proven is completely illusory - and a piece of paper flutters out. She reaches for it and catches it midair. 

Severus wouldn't have _bothered_ saying anything about that. He'd have been rendered speechless, pinched the bridge of his nose and simply _groaned_. Perhaps just a mite dramatically. Or simply raised a disdainful eyebrow in silent disbelief, it's a bit of a toss up. But to be fair to Minerva, the risk from Portkeys, at least, is very minimal without the Headmaster's involvement. Now contact poisons and cursed objects, on the other hand... And it's not like there hadn't been any of _those_ this past year... 

Severus would come to the conclusion, once yet again, that he and his colleagues inhabit vastly different realities. Fortunately, he's spared all of that as he lies sleeping, recovering from the extensive injuries he, somewhat less fortunately, had received the previous night. Something by way of a mixed blessing then, it would seem, not that he otherwise would have _had_ to have known any of this, but he has a bad habit of _asking_ those sorts of questions and a worse one of engaging in casual Legilimency. Albus had set quite the _abominable_ example on that front. But it only serves Severus right if this is what he discovers when he intrudes in such a fashion. _Really_. 

Luckily by the time Severus wakes and speaks to his colleague again, he'll have very different things on his mind, and he'll never have to know about any of it. He'd doubtlessly consider it a small mercy.  
  


Minerva turns the slip of paper over to discover it seems to be a voucher for a painting of her choice from a local gallery, Warts and Warhol's in Hogsmeade. How nice. It's quite unhoped-for; it's not her birthday - that had been last month, her sixty-second, as was, or any other day of significance... 

But she needn't wonder long, as the accompanying note, she determines as she smooths it open, appears to bear the explanation.  
  


Ah. Severus...

He seems to have made off with the portrait from her classroom. How... _unexpected_. Sixteen years they've been colleagues, and he's never done anything like that before. She doubts he's set foot in her classroom since he was a student in fact... 

And then she all too quickly has to correct that as she recalls what had apparently happened there just this past Friday. 

Oh, dear... Yes, of course.

Scanning the note further only confirms it. 

What was left of the peace of the morning is gone without a trace at that, as surely as if it had Disapparated without even a 'pop'. She's well and truly awake now. More's the pity. 

The images of the blood pouring down on poor Miss Granger... They've been haunting her. She keeps trying to put them out of her mind - occasionally with success, but never for long enough - because she doesn't think the young woman would appreciate that _that's_ what she sees in her mind's eye whenever she looks at her. 

She's quite right on that count. Hermione wouldn't welcome it at all.  
  


Well, it's _nice_ that Severus thought to mention he'd pinched the painting, she thinks somewhat wryly. Obviously _asking_ first would have been preferable... _Wizards_. She shouldn't like to imagine what _he_ would have to say if she absconded with something from _his_ classroom, no matter how noble her reasons. 

She'll acknowledge to herself, at least, that she finds his stated reasons rather noble. Acknowledging as much to _him_ seems very ill advised. And probably counterproductive.

* * *

  


Truthfully, he'd be quite surprised if she _managed_ to nick something from his room. Not even Peeves can enter his domain, and Peeves has the decided advantage of being noncorporeal a good portion of the time, certainly should the need or desire arise. 

The irony that his _wife_ had managed to... liberate some needed potions ingredients from his stores will be mercifully kept from him for a little time yet. _That_ incident in conjunction with Barty Crouch Jr.'s raids on his supplies were instrumental factors leading to the tightening of his own wards. And of course the return of You-Know-Who. That _may_ have been a more crucial factor. Severus is wise enough never to even _hint_ at such a thing. 

At present, his wards should prove _very_ difficult to break, and he's extended much of the protections from his chambers, in modified forms, to his classroom and office as well. With the sensible and necessary concessions, naturally. 'Concessions', unfortunately, are synonymous with 'weaknesses'. Still, he's reasonably confident his classroom and office are secure from all but Hogwarts house elf deliveries outside of class hours and detentions, and doesn't hesitate to say as much when faculty get to chatting about these things. 

Typically, he offers to eat his broom if any of the others can break his wards. Some take it for conceit, others for simple antagonism, but provoking Filius in that fashion had led to the discovery of a potential vulnerability just last year, thankfully long before the wards were actually breached, or any brooms had to be eaten. 

It wouldn't have been nearly as bad as it sounds, though. Severus had developed a Charm in his seventh year to Vanish substances directly from his mouth. It seemed a logical extension of some of the Charms he'd learned from Lucius. Well, possibly not _logical_ , but it built upon them, which made creating it easier. 

He'd been only seventeen, impulsive and stupidly allowed himself to be taunted by his roommates into making a foolish bet with Mulciber, which he'd promptly lost. _Horribly_. Developing that Charm had been dead necessary or he'd have had to swallow his _school trunk_. It should go without saying that reneging wasn't an option. 

The Charm had posed some intriguing problems. He clearly wouldn't be able to cast it repeatedly in front of everyone, and at that age he'd doubted his ability to perform the Charm silently and wandlessly as many times as required. Certainly not while chewing on bits of luggage. He needed a spell that would last for a while. 

Initial experimentation with that had gone very wrong, and caused all his food to Vanish from his mouth for a day and a half. By dinner the second day, he'd gotten a bit nervous about what might happen if it didn't stop. Fine, panic may have set in. Merlin, he was almost hungry enough he would have _gladly_ eaten his trunk, which sort of defeated the whole purpose... Sadly, it had helped some that he was all too used to going hungry. But eventually his spell worked as intended. Like a Charm, in fact.

It didn't get him around tasting the trunk, however. Shy of Obliviating the bet from the entire Slytherin dormitory's collective memories, a definite impossibility at the time, there'd been no way to avoid that. To this day he'll swear that everything he tried tasted of leather, iron and wood for the entire next week, but it was still preferable on balance as he can't imagine _actually_ eating the trunk would have been remotely good for him, although presumably high in fibre. There's that. But if swish came to flick, he'd much rather take a potion for it. 

And of course a Geminio in advance meant he wasn't stuck without a trunk after the fact. Coming from a very poor family, he was careful to think of things like that. He'd even gone so far as to eat the Geminioed version. Well, _chew it_. Just in case it wasn't as robust as the original, Merlin, he'd rather _hoped_ it wasn't as robust... He still has the original stowed in his attic at Spinner's End. Who knows if a Geminioed trunk would have lasted that long. Or why one would want it to...  
  


It _was_ exceedingly good, as things had transpired, to be made aware of any weaknesses in his protections, and Filius tends to peruse a good many things not on the typical Death Eater's summer reading list. (If Severus lives to be 137 3/4 he will _never_ forgive them for having nothing but time on their hands and access to the Malfoy's library and not cracking a single tome. Dunderheaded trogs, the lot of them.) Forewarned is forearmed, as the saying goes (not that he's especially fond of forearms since the late seventies), and he'd been able to adjust his wards accordingly. 

Naturally he _could_ have just _asked_ Filius to test his wards, but he finds most of his colleagues aren't taking the threats as seriously as he feels they should, and regrettably they're much more motivated when riled. But he can work with that. It was easier than trying to _convince_ them to do their best, and had the clear advantage that no one was left with the impression they had done him a favour. 

He's learnt rather a lot since his seventh year.

* * *

  


Sybill says Severus is showboating when he makes claims like that about the strength of his wards, the truth of them notwithstanding. On the other hand, Minerva suspects Sybill and the truth aren't well acquainted. They're certainly not _friendly_. 

But then _that's_ something Minerva can understand all too well. It's frequently... challenging even being _civil_ to the Seer. _Kind_ , she can manage when circumstances absolutely demand it, but _friendly_?

_Showboating_. Now _there's_ the cauldron calling the kettle black. Minerva had heard rumours about a prophecy of the Seer's yesterday...

* * *

  


On reflection, Minerva's actually quite... _satisfied_ with the measures Severus has taken. 

She concentrates on that a little more and allows the thoughts of Miss Granger bound to her chair to fade. She performs a number of mental exercises, practically second nature, that are part of the basic Animagi training to help clear her mind. Those exercises are _indispensable_ if one wishes to learn to Transfigure one's form in that way - she'll _never_ understand how Pettigrew, Black and Potter mastered them - but they've also proven useful in many other areas of her life. Compartmentalisation helps increase her efficiency. Some days, it's all that keeps her going. 

Having given herself a moment, she can now honestly say she's _pleased_ with Severus' endeavours on Miss Gr... Madam Snape's behalf. It helps, naturally, that Minerva wasn't overly attached to the painting and doesn't mind its removal. It was probably well past time for a change. Goodness, it's getting on twenty years... On consideration, she realises it had only just missed hanging there when _Severus_ was a student...  
  


But far more importantly than the portrait itself, _this_ means Severus had cared enough to take precautions for the young woman, to try to make things... _easier_ for her. Both the fact he had _thought_ about it - and arrived at _sensible_ conclusions - Merlin knows, _that's_ rare enough, and then had been willing to _take steps_ towards that end made a difference. One without the other is useless. There are always those who grasp more and yet still don't act, and those that _would_ but haven't a clue what to do; neither is of much good here. 

She Summons parchment, quill and ink and writes a few lines, thanking him for the voucher, but saying it won't be necessary. She can speak to Albus and have him issue her a different artwork. 

She hesitates, and then decides against thanking Severus for his efforts on Miss... Madam Snape's behalf. It goes against her better nature _not_ to do so, but he probably wouldn't appreciate it. Again, it's a good call. She's learnt some things about people in her years teaching. 

No, he's far more likely to think she meant to imply he didn't have the students' interests at heart, or his _bondmate's_ for that matter... Or worse, that she meant to imply something about his relationship to the young woman. She's firmly convinced now, there _is_ none, which somewhat contrarily she's beginning to think is a... pity. 

It's a strange thing, she's come to realise. _Had_ there been a... relationship, she would have called for his head. Loudly. _Unequivocally_. She _might_ have removed it herself. And if he'd been lucky, she might have _left it_ at his head. It doesn't matter the least to her that the young woman is an adult. She was still his _student_. To Minerva, that represents a line that _cannot_ , _must not_ be crossed. 

But given there _wasn't_ any relationship, now that they're bonded, she finds it somehow very... sad. She frankly wouldn't have wished it on him, and she certainly wouldn't wish it on poor Miss Gr... Madam Snape.

Severus was correct, it's a grim thing to face for the rest of their lives. As he'd suggested, she can't imagine she would ever consent to making such a sacrifice. For Mr. Potter, say. Or any of their _other_ charges. 

Minerva may be doing herself a disservice there. It makes a great deal of difference that the threat _isn't_ the same, and she _isn't_ facing such a decision. It's not at all clear _what_ she'd do if it were. But it _is_ fortunate she'll never have to find out.  
  


The Transfigurations Mistress settles instead on writing in her note that she is quite happy to make that little sacrifice of the portrait if it will help the young witch any. She had been sincere Sunday, if there is _anything_ she can do to help, they need only let her know. That seems sufficiently neutral, it shouldn't give Severus any reason to get his back up. Although with him, one never knows. 

Satisfied, she pockets voucher and her note and heads to breakfast.

* * *

  


Filius comes in as Minerva is helping herself to some eggs and takes the empty seat between her and Pomona to her right. Albus, Severus, Hagrid, and even Professor Taylor all aren't there yet. It's probably coincidence, but it helps her mood to scoff ' _wizards_ ' under her breath. Truthfully, she should just be thankful Taylor hasn't arrived yet. 

"Good morning, my dears. I trust everyone slept well?" Filius enquires as he hops up onto the seat. 

She and Pomona assent, niceties are exchanged, and her colleagues natter on about the weather and what it might mean for some late crop or another of Pomona's. 

Minerva surveys the Hall and can't help noticing Miss Kil... Madam Devi hasn't appeared yet. Kiera is usually an early riser, but presumably she's visiting her... bondmate in the Infirmary. Perfectly reasonable. And probably preferable to the alternatives, had they both been in the Tower. Not that they hadn't been the night and morning before, but then all eyes hadn't been upon them at the time, so to speak. 

As the majority present would have no way of knowing if she _were_ in the Infirmary, _not_ that she _is_ , it shouldn't make any difference whatsoever... Truthfully, by this time Minerva is responding based on _feeling_ and not _thought_. Gryffindors frequently do. 

Miss... Madam Snape also hasn't arrived yet. Minerva scans further and has to acknowledge that neither have the... Smiths. And of course nor had Severus, as she'd already noted. 

Now the... Smiths aren't necessarily early risers, and Severus has been highly variable, at least by his standards, as to the times he appears the past year or so... She tries not to think about _why_ that might be in light of what she'd seen of his injuries Sunday evening. Taken by themselves, their absences wouldn't be food for much of anything, really. But in the sum, the fact _not a single one_ of those whose bondings were announced yesterday has put in an appearance gives one to think. 

And apparently she isn't the _only_ one to think so, from the snippets of conversation she can catch from the students' tables. 

No, it seems to be _quite_ the gossip fodder. 

Perfect. 

Any peace of mind she'd been able to work to achieve disappears the longer she listens to it. She stabs a little angrily at her breakfast, spearing a bite of a link of sausage, and trying to swallow it around the lump forming in her throat. Her soldiers lie forgotten at the edge of her plate.  
  


If appearances don't deceive, Pomona seems quite relaxed about... matters. Naturally that only serves to make Minerva more tense. 

Appearances, in this case, are in fact spot on. The Smiths are of age, they're bonded. Expecting anything else of them - which isn't to say Pomona is willing to explicitly define _what_ exactly she _expects_ of them, but still - expecting anything _else_ would be absurd. And _improper_. No one has any _right_ to expect them not to... _canoodle_. 

Pomona stifles a chuckle as she watches Minerva clenching. 

She _likes_ her colleague. Very much. She's known her since they were school girls, from the days when she'd been a lost little firstie and Minerva was a prefect and had kindly shown her the way to the greenhouses. Pomona had _loved_ them at her very first sight of them, never dreaming they'd one day be _hers_ , and she always associates that feeling, at least a little, with Minerva who had spent the whole walk over animatedly telling her about all the _wonderful_ things she'd learn there. It had been entrancing, magical, and was something very special to have shared, and for that alone Minerva would always have a special place in her heart. But sometimes she can't help thinking the woman would do herself a terrific favour if she could just... _relax_ a little. 

It makes things much simpler, however, that Pomona really doesn't particularly like the Smiths. Her advice hadn't been sought as to their bonding. They've made their... bed, their _marriage_ bed, it would seem, in point of fact, and they are quite welcome to lie in it as far as she's concerned. There isn't a great deal for her to be upset about. 

But then her relationship to Miss Perks was never remotely the same as Minerva's to Miss Granger. That makes quite the difference.  
  


It never occurs to Minerva's colleagues that part of the reason she's tenser than they are of late is _she_ is a member of the Order and _they_ are _not_. She has completely different, far deadlier concerns she's facing. Regularly. 

But to be fair to _them_ , it doesn't generally occur to _her_ to consider that Severus is not just a member of the Order, but of the _Death Eaters_ as well, and something of a triple agent to boot, and he has even deadlier concerns to face than she has. 

These oversights aren't malicious. They're _human_. They simply fail to take their different frames of reference into account. But _that_ accounts for many of their problems.  
  


Minerva really _is_ convinced Miss... Madam Snape had told the truth, there's _nothing_ of... that sort between them. But the longer she sits there, the longer they're absent, the more those present begin joking and laughing about it... Well, she finds herself asking herself just what Severus is playing at. He _certainly_ should have been aware of what a difference appearances can make and taken steps to limit their exposure to wild speculation. He _is_ the Slytherin, after all. 

What difference _exactly_ she thinks their presence would make is unclear, and has mostly to do with her own nerves. Or perhaps it's naïveté. If the couple had entered the Hall the very moment the doors unlocked, those same wagging tongues would simply say their wild night of passion together ended _earlier_. Or perhaps they'd malignantly claim it was... _unspectacular_ and the... Snapes had called it a... morning, presumably. It certainly wouldn't _stop_ the gossip. It might only succeed in _changing_ it, but probably not in making it any less... _problematic_. 

The later it gets - not that it's all _that_ much later, but this is a sensitive point for her - the angrier she becomes. Giving her breakfast up as a bad job, she puts down her knife and fork and turns her attention to her cup of tea. She's hoping the hot cure-all will _indeed_ cure all, she could very much use a panacea right about now, and make inroads against the anger that seems to have physically manifested and is now inopportunely situated quite obtrusively in her throat. 

She's begun thinking she might just pop down to Hogsmeade and stop by Warts and Warhol's and purchase their most _expensive_ portrait at Severus' expense. More fool he for offering so open-endedly... 

Filius and Pomona's conversation reaches a lull and making an honest attempt to try to take her mind off the... Snapes, Minerva breaks in with a "Thank you for trying to sort Mr. Devi for us, Filius."

"Oh, not at all, Minerva, happy to help, happy to help." 

This is normal ground, comfortable, and Minerva realises she's glad of the change. She shakes herself out of it and turns to Filius, suddenly eager to stick to safer topics. She really should have just joined in their conversation earlier; it might have done her some good. 

"I appreciate your time and effort on their behalves, and I'm quite sorry the Countercharm is being such a bother. Is it at least proving interesting?"

His forehead wrinkles and then he replies, "No, it wasn't all that difficult. Quite _unusual_ , I will say that for Miss Devi. I was half tempted to award her points for that," at Minerva's disapprovingly raised eyebrows, he reassures her, "No worries, there, my dear. I wasn't that foolish. But ultimately the hex wasn't that difficult. Still, I'd be most interested to hear where she found it, if you think you can get that bit of information out of her? No, I found the solution last night without too much trouble... 

"But the Devis were rather... well they seemed quite... _insistent_ that they wanted to leave the tail in place for a few days. To give it a go, as it were..."

Minerva, it must be said, really _does_ have the worst luck with her tea. She had just taken rather a mouthful of the hot brew and now finds herself choking again. Pomona, as ever, remains convinced she knows _precisely_ how to deal with that, and leaps to the rescue, and Minerva's rotten luck holds, in as much as Poppy won't appear to contradict her until Minerva's left. 

Pomona's heart is in the right place. Would that were so of her hand. 

The thumping that ensues does as little as it ever does to help, and Minerva coughs her way through the fit. 

"You left _the tail_ in place so they could ' _give it a go_ '?!" She gasps. 

Filius' first thought is something along the lines of 'well, it _is_ their honeymoon, after all' but astutely realises that will probably only make matters worse. Likewise he discards his second, third and fourth answers respectively addressing the legality, health benefits and finally _ethics_ of interfering in the sex lives of consenting adults, and _bonded_ ones at that. And then he comes up empty, and finally accepts nothing he can say will mollify Minerva. Hmm. Yes. There's a reason he's a Ravenclaw. 

Unfortunately, Pomona doesn't seem to have thought it through quite as thoroughly as Filius had, and when he doesn't answer, she does. "Now, Minerva, they're on honeymoon, after all."

Suitably reassured, Filius squeaks, "My thoughts exactly..." His voice quite high as it gets when he's nervous or excited. (It's probably the first at just this exact moment.) And that nervousness may be increasing as Minerva's expression darkens. 

Pomona is undeterred and continues as though there had been no interruption, "You were young once, too."

Minerva had in fact been a little over three years shy of her _fiftieth_ when she married her dear Elphinstone. And while forty-six is hardly any age at all for a witch, it is certainly not, in _any_ sense, comparable to the youth of the _seventeen year olds_ apparently currently giving an extra... _appendage_ a _go_. 

It seems she'd had that right yesterday after all. 

"You're encouraging student..."

"Relations." Pomona unhelpfully supplies with a smile. Filius has got the right of it - he's keeping mum. 

" _Cavorting!_ " Minerva half hisses. Cats have been known to do that, and at moments like this, it's easy to see the feline in her. It's fair to note the morning has proven rather taxing for the Gryffindor, as in fact have the past couple of days. Her nerves are a little raw. 

She marshals her thoughts and then thinks she's spotted the obvious flaw in their logic, "But what good did that do them in the Infirmary?" Minerva is trying her utmost not to imagine Poppy standing for this nonsense. Which probably means it's also a very good thing she has no idea _what_ Poppy gets up to. 

"Well, I saw them both back to the Tower last night before retiring..." Filius isn't sure that won't make things worse, but he can hardly lie about it. Nor should he care to. Not least because the Fat Lady will happily contradict him should he even try. He's practical like that. Bloody portraits. 

"Then who else was in the Infirmary?" Minerva now demands of no one in particular, more than a little concerned. Normally students needing to go to the Infirmary after curfew stop by their Head of House's quarters for an escort. If need be, they can then even Floo there with her assistance. And yet no one had so much as knocked. Her wards would have detected that. 

"Just Misters Weasley and Thomas when I left." Filius really isn't sure how to appease her. In the absence of clearly preferable options, he goes with the truth. 

He's relieved when the exchange thankfully comes to an end as someone bursts through the doors and everyone's attention is diverted. Or almost. Pomona leans over and whispers to Filius, "You know how Minerva feels about 'cavorting'."

He chuckles and whispers back, "I suppose we can add it to the list with 'canoodling'..."

"Perhaps we should add 'capering' as well. Just to be on the safe side," she replies with a giggle and a wink that make the Herbologist seem a good deal younger than her years.  
  


Both Hermione and Severus would happily point out that Minerva had never voiced _any_ opinion about 'canoodling' one way or another had either of them been party to the relevant conversations. All considered, it's presumably better for all concerned that they weren't, although probably not just for _that_ reason.

* * *

  


Hermione causes quite a stir when she swoops into the Great Hall during breakfast. She's lucky it's early, and not as many people are there yet, but the word will spread, there's no doubt about that.

For one thing, she isn't wearing her school robes. She's in Mugglewear, extremely... _tailored_ Mugglewear, and the typically well concealed figure _that_ reveals gives rises to a great deal of speculation as to why the Professor had been willing to bond her. 

And a little envy. 

Under _radically_ different circumstances, both of them might have been a bit pleased about that. The envy, not the speculation; there's virtually no situation where they'd welcome that. Unfortunately _those_ are _not_ their circumstances. 

Then, too, her hair is rather thoroughly... tousled when she storms into the room and marches right up the centre of the Hall to the High Table. And for another, her... bondmate is noticeably absent from said Table. There have already been more than a few nudges and winks about why he might be having a lie in, given the announcement of his bonding just the evening before. 

The reasons for their absences are unrelated, but the situation isn't helped by the fact that neither the Devis nor Smiths are present. Naturally, it can take a moment to work out a bathroom schedule when sharing digs with a new flatmate. Admittedly, that's presumably an extremely naïve explanation in _their_ cases. 

Unaware of the ruckus her presence, or Professor Snape's absence, is causing, Hermione proceeds unchecked to the High Table and stops directly in front of Professor McGonagall. In a tone that is highly questionable from student to teacher, and particularly in _Hermione's_ case thoroughly unheard of, she _demands_ that the Professor come with her. If everything else hadn't been sufficient fuel for the gossip fires, _that_ will have done the trick. 

Sensing the importance of doing so in Miss Gr... Madam Snape's changed demeanour, and with a sinking feeling in her stomach that now makes her relieved she hadn't eaten more, the Transfigurations Professor rises from her seat, walks around the table and follows the younger woman silently out of the Hall. It probably helps that she now has a different association entirely with what it might mean when Severus is absent. 

Only when they are clear of the room and witnesses does she ask the little witch where they're going and what the meaning of this is. 

Hermione only answers half the question. "You thought I had underestimated his condition. That he had taken advantage of me. I need to show you something." 

There's something in her tone that has Minerva worried. The fact that their path leads once again in the direction of the Infirmary simply reinforces her concerns. Minutes later the young woman is leading her again to the back room, and Minerva has no doubt whom she'll find there. The only question is what state he is in.

  



	63. 11 11c Tuesday - Harry Gets a Bit of Clue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Harry, Ginny, Seamus, Neville, the Gryffindor Quidditch team (Ritchie Coote, Jimmy Peakes, Demelza Robins, Jack Sloper, Fay Dunbar, mentioned: Dean, Ron) Andrew Kirke, Georgina Smith, mentioned: Hermione and Severus, Draco_
> 
> In which 'chuffed' means 'pleased' and isn't used sarcastically. For once.

Harry's Tempus wakes him from a series of strange dreams. It began with quite the usual fare, him stood there in front of the whole Potions class in nothing but his pants without the required number of inches on... He can't even remember. It might have been the more esoteric uses for Flobberworms. That sounds about right.  
That wasn't the odd bit. He's had that one before. 

Lately in the dream, his pants are revealed to be green, and more teasing ensues; he blames Luna's father and that damn Quibbler interview for that. But not Luna. She'd meant well enough setting it up for him. He tries to keep that straight in his mind. 

Some days he succeeds. 

Harry may also have asked Neville for a Charm a couple of weeks ago to change the colour of all his pants red, just to be on the safe side. Strangely, McGonagall hadn't seen the need to cover that in Transfigurations. Once he took inventory, he'd had to acknowledge: a surprising number _had_ actually been green. Neville's a mate, he didn't even crack a smile, and he hadn't told any of the others. Harry knows that for sure, as he hasn't been mocked mercilessly, and not a one of the others _wouldn't_ have, had they known. 

It still didn't stop the random attacks in the hallways when his wonderful schoolmates kept turning bits of his uniform green, but usually 'Mione sorted that for him, or sometimes Luna or Gin, when she wasn't hexing him herself that is, and on balance it was less embarrassing than asking any of them to Charm his pants _by far_. Honestly, he should probably just learn the Charm himself, but their concern, their _care_ is kind of... comforting. 

No, the odd bit of his dream was Snape had turned to _'Mione_ and asked her how many points he should take for it, and she suggested detention instead. During the _Slytherin Gryffindor Quidditch match_ of course. With Filch. Cleaning the Grand Staircase with a Muggle toothbrush. With integrated gum massagers. Snape had seemed dead chuffed at the idea. The detention, not the gum massagers. Harry's pretty sure he wouldn't know what those are. When Harry had inevitably protested, she told him his _priorities_ needed sorting. _His_ priorities. 

Although, on reflection, he could see where she might think that. 

Not that she's right...

Malfoy had offered to push him down the stairwell while he was at it. Ron seemed to think he had his back, at least as long as the Ministry or his family's safety wasn't remotely involved, and promised not to deploy his Dirty Draught, or whatever. Unfortunately, his _Arresto Whatsit_ wasn't going to be sufficient to catch Harry, mostly because it wasn't even a spell, as 'Mione was happy to explain. In graphic and excruciatingly technical detail. Ron supplied the 'splat' and crunching noises she couldn't or wouldn't produce. It was quite... colourful. 

One of the interesting things about dreams being he _knew_ 'Mione had used all sorts of physics terms and thrown maths at him he hadn't begun to comprehend, but it _had_ all sounded perfectly plausible in the dream and now he doesn't remember a word of it. Beyond a brief discussion of 'terminal velocity', that is, that sounded more grim than anything Trelawney had thrown at him in _years_ , not that he remembered what that was supposed to have meant either.  
  


No, that was all less odd, except maybe Ron and Hermione working together for once, than Snape asking _her opinion_. He doesn't even call on her when she raises her _hand_. And her hand hadn't even been _raised_. _That_ was _very_ odd. Both aspects actually. Her hand is almost permanently raised. 

Ron had joked once that some of the muscles in her arm must be too short and she's physically incapable of putting it down without tearing something. But, he'd added, gilding the lily, she wouldn't damage anything of importance as it wasn't as if she needed her arm to play Quidditch anyway. 'Mione may have stomped off at the last bit. Harry's sort of stopped keeping track.  
  


So Harry protested that she couldn't do that, give him detention, that is, and Snape had said... 

Absolutely _nothing_ that made _any_ sense whatsoever. 

No, that was when it became _ridiculous_ , and Harry really wasn't enjoying his dream anymore. Not that he'd _enjoyed_ it _before_ , but he reached the point where he _really_ needed to wake up, and he was only too happy when he was saved by the Tempus.  
  


As he slowly comes to, shaking off what remains of the dream with the woolliness in his head, and yesterday's events come crashing back to mind, he realises with a sinking feeling that all the strangest bits were very real. 

_'My wife can do as she bloody well pleases...'_

Merlin's beard. 

With far less enthusiasm for his day than he had a mere two minutes ago, he forces himself out of bed. 

An even worse thought strikes him: _he has Potions today_. 

Then: _They have Potions today_. 

Right after double Transfigurations. And he'd already had to use a _Langlock_ on Ron in class yesterday, and that was _before_ they knew Snape had... 

That is, _Hermione_ had...  
  


Bloody hell. 

Harry has a moment he's not too proud of when he sort of hopes Ron will stay in the Infirmary at least until lunch and miss the class. He's not sure there's a Body-Bind strong enough to sort this otherwise. A Langlock won't be of much help if Ron's gone crimson with rage and is gesticulating madly. And probably rudely. Merlin knows, he'd learnt plenty of those from Fred and George. Ron wasn't at a loss for a gesture to express much of anything these days. 

Honestly, it's not a _bad_ thought, wishing Ron were absent, even if it superficially appears less than kind. They haven't got double Potions until Thursday, by then Ron might have had a chance to get over the initial shock and come to terms with how he was going to cope with... it. Or Harry could brush up on his Body-Binds. 

It's not like Harry is hoping he's injured or anything. 

And just think of the points it'll cost them...

Harry runs both hands through his hair just considering it. It's definitely a two handed mussing kind of a problem. Merlin, yesterday had been a _disaster_.  
  


It's unusually quiet in their room, and sort of less... smelly than usual. Harry suspects Ron's dirty socks are generally to blame for that. There's only so much an elf can do about it. 

That's not quite true, but it requires the knowledge or desire to make arrangements to sort it, and none of the boys _had_. 

While Harry isn't wrong about the sordid socks, he may be overlooking the preponderance of worn Quidditch gear floating about the room, figuratively, in part because plenty of it's his, which is easily recognised by the Muggle-raised badge on those items. Ron and Dean are both on the team with him this year, as Keeper and Chaser respectively, and Seamus had joined sixth year Jack Sloper as a reserve Beater. Dean's stuff, apparently erroneously, has a Muggle-born badge on it. Harry just can't _imagine_ how Seamus and Ron _ever_ tell their things apart without such useful aids. It probably helps that the Keeper's uniform is different to the others. 

After practice, so only three times a week or so, fine, or maybe _five_ in the week or two or just maybe three leading up to a match, their dirty stuff tends to completely take over the room, and there's very little of the floor left to see. Honestly, Neville must have the patience of a saint to put up with them. 

On the other hand, the kit _he_ wore when he helped out from time to time in the greenhouses has the distinctly pungent aroma of Dynamic Dragons' Dung about it, so he's probably in no position to complain about the stench. Or dirt. Still, it's surprising how well the Quidditch uniforms give the dung a run for its Sickle. Although he tends not to leave his things lying on the ground, so there's that.

Ron and Dean never made it back last night, and Neville had gone down to breakfast early, saying something about how he needed to speak to Sprout about some project or another of his. Seamus is prodding Harry to get moving, ' _get a wriggle on_ ', and he drags himself into the showers trying to find the strength to face the day.

* * *

  


It's not long before Seamus and Harry are making their way together down to the Great Hall to get something to eat. Seamus is back to repeating his incredulity at yesterday's news, interspersed with mutterings of outrage at Ron's sneaky Pastilles attack. He's on a seemingly never-ending loop. 

Harry's mostly ignoring him. 

That's going surprisingly well, really. He just grunts at intervals, and it seems interactive enough. Truthfully, it's a technique he's had plenty of opportunities to practise and nearly perfect with Hermione and Ron lately, generally when one complains about the other. It's becoming his go to response. Anyway, Seamus doesn't seem to have noticed Harry's inattention.

Given Ron was the one who spent the night in the Infirmary, Harry's not even sure if Seamus' complaints are fair, but Harry _had_ missed the whole thing and really can't say. Plus it seems a little like Seamus wouldn't have miscast that badly had he not been chundering rather violently while doing so, and whose fault was that? Right. But those are also much the same excuses he applies to Ron inadvertently putting Dean in the Infirmary over night. 

And then he becomes cross with the lot of them, thinking they damn well better all be fit by practice this evening. Sure, because _that_ typically helps the probability they _will_ be. He's sure of it. If one squints, _just so_ , one can see traces of Oliver Wood in him in moments like those. 

Ginny is sitting by herself when they enter. Demelza Robins, their third Chaser, had been sitting with her talking strategy for their upcoming match, but had just left to go sit with Hafsa Devi and the other fifth years instead. O.W.L.s are kind of doing her head in, poor thing. _Seven months in advance_. She reminds Harry of 'Mione a little sometimes. Not just because Ron's been known to make her cry, he thinks a little ruefully. And that's only if 'Mione were far less studious, a wonder on a broom and, y'know, actually _liked_ Quidditch. 

Harry suspects 'Mione would be a Bludger magnet on the pitch. Not just because she couldn't avoid the things, which she couldn't to save her life, but because she really _does_ have some of the worst luck.  
  


Married to _Snape_.

Enough said on _that_ score. 

He and Seamus slide into the seats next to Ginny and begin helping themselves to breakfast.

* * *

  


The conversation is initially sort of strained and awkward. It probably doesn't help that Seamus is worried she blames him for putting Ron in the Infirmary, although it's only a small part of the problem. Frankly, that doesn't even cross her mind at all until he makes a brutally awkward attempt to both justify it and apologise all in the same sentence. Not that she particularly wanted to hear _either_ , but he should clearly have decided on one _or_ the other. 

For one thing, she doesn't feel _she's_ the one owed an apology. She and Ron aren't the same person, they aren't joined at the hip. And that's only if an apology _were_ actually _owed_. She knows Ron well enough that she'll allow as how that might not be the case. 

For another, Ron's little contretemps hardly registered compared to the _Hermione Snape_ announcement, even if Ginny _had_ missed it, and how the boys had _known_ and _hadn't_ told her about it. She isn't going to get over _that_ any time soon. That's truer than she knows. But that's not quite a discussion she feels like having with Seamus there, and she's sort of waiting for him to push off. 

Eventually, even Seamus can't stomach the awkward, and _his_ stomach is normally second only to Ron's in its toughness. Perhaps it's a residual effect of the Pastilles.  
  


Fay, who finally managed to become a reserve Chaser this year, slips into the seat next to sixth year Beater Ritchie Coote, who gives her a shy smile that looks sweetly out of place on him for all his looming form. Her friend Georgina takes the spot by her side. Seamus wisely decides sitting with the attractive, Quidditch savvy single women is preferable to being stuck with whatever weirdness is going on with Harry and Ginny and with a mumbled excuse no one bothers trying to discern, and may not have involved actual words, or perhaps that's just misleading because of his Irish brogue, takes his plate and goes to sit with the others. 

Seamus' timing isn't half bad, as it's not long before Jack Sloper, who had filled out quite a bit and improved significantly since his ignoble stint on the team in Harry's fifth year, takes the seat next to Seamus across from the ladies. His friend Andrew Kirke, who hadn't improved a _whit_ at Quidditch as far as Harry can tell, but somehow managed to become the sixth year's male Prefect, not that these are necessarily related things as Hermione's success should prove, takes the free seat next to Georgina. Actually, considering Andrew's competition was Jack, Ritchie, Dhanesh and Colin, his Prefect status begins to make more sense.

* * *

  


As the others get lost in their conversation about the upcoming match and their analyses of how they fancy their chances, Ginny takes advantage of the relative privacy it affords them to talk to Harry about how she feels about them not clueing her in yesterday. It's hardly a fruitful discussion, but at least she's taking a stab at clearing the air between them. It's a good idea, but unfortunately Harry's repeated variations on 'he just couldn't tell her' don't prove any more satisfying today than they had yesterday, and they hit an uncomfortable stalemate until it occurs to Harry that he probably _does_ have more to tell her. _Now_. 

Haltingly, quietly, he reveals that 'Mione had apparently been attacked by Death Eaters on Friday, which was the real reason she'd been in the Infirmary. And the bonding was apparently supposed to keep her safe. Somehow. He does a piss-poor job of explaining it, as he hadn't really grasped that part. Honestly, he'd been struggling with the whole ''Mione married Snape' thing, and hadn't followed much of the rest. 

Well, until Dumbledore got around to sort of blaming them for the whole thing. Which is clearly rubbish. He desperately _hopes_. 

Naturally, he avoids mentioning _any_ of the stuff about how this may have been retaliation for what he and Ron had done to, uh, provoke Malfoy. Or how this was far more likely to have been because she was _his_ friend, no matter what the Headmaster said. And now he wonders about Malfoy's fall Sunday night, and if they're going to be blamed for it somehow, and if that puts 'Mione at _more_ risk, until it occurs to him that _that_ was exactly what the bond was supposed to be _for_. 

Ginny's jaw drops as she hears about it. 

"You didn't think to mention _any_ of this yesterday?!" She's plenty mad that they're _still_ concealing things from her, annoyed that _she_ was the one sending information home, trying to keep their mum informed, when Ron apparently knew more than she did and had deliberately _kept_ it from her. She feels like he set her up. Brilliantly, as he's still in the Infirmary, she directs some of that hostility towards Harry instead. To be fair, though, as far as she knows, Harry had been _just_ as guilty of withholding the facts from her. 

And then she realises that she's not sure _how long_ they've known about the attack, and had she had _any_ idea what happened, _she'd_ have visited Hermione in the Infirmary. She _would have_ gone to sit next to her at dinner yesterday. Then it occurs to her that Harry had asked her to do just _that_ , and she'd kind of let both him and Hermione down...

And whether or not she wants to admit it to herself, she _had_ known that _something_ had happened to Hermione on Friday, and she _still_ hadn't stopped by. It hadn't been important enough. 

A few people look their way and Harry's wand knocks out a Muffliato before he answers. 

"Couldn't." It's roughly as successful as it was a few moments ago, no surprise there, but he also knows there's no point in elaborating. He can't tell her what she needs or wants to hear. 

" _What_ exactly happened to her? It happened _here_? On grounds? At _Hogwarts_?! How did they even get to her? Is she... I mean, is she _alright_? Is she even safe _now_? Are _any_ of us?"

"Uh..." Belatedly, _very_ belatedly, it dawns on him he doesn't know the answers to those questions, and he suspects he probably should. Especially if he considers that those were basically the first things to occur to Ginny. It leaves him wondering if he's a crummy friend. 

The answer is 'sometimes', but then most people are. Sometimes. The trick is making those times _few_ and _far between_. 

Posing that question is probably the first step to becoming a better friend. Unfortunately, caught between Ron and Hermione as he is, it will take him some time to become a really _good_ friend. But he's Harry, and this is Hermione he's worried about. She's like a sister to him. Probably the closest thing to one he'll ever have. He'll get there eventually, and Hermione can be both very forgiving and very patient. That should help. 

In fact, it will almost definitely be _necessary_.  
  


With a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, Harry's remembering telling 'Mione she needed to be more careful, that she was 'incident' prone, that next time she might land in the Infirmary for just _breathing_ or something... Yeah, he'd handled that well. He's feeling incredibly guilty. More so because the Headmaster had intimated this was _his_ fault. 

Ginny's reaction is sort of the diametrical opposite to Ron's. Ron had declined all guilt and had wanted to downplay 'Mione's experience and her condition completely as part of that. Harry had been happy to go along with that. He didn't need any more guilt, and he'd preferred to think 'Mione was every bit as alright as she looked. Who wouldn't? 

Ginny, on the other hand, seems to think whatever happened was very serious. It's particularly odd, as she had no more information to go on than they did, less even, and yet she seems _sure_ she's right. And Harry kind of fears she is. 

It might make a difference that Ginny hadn't sat next to them for the past six years as they developed their strange antagonistic joint relationship with Snape that Harry is, also belatedly, coming to realise wasn't quite as 'joint' as he had thought it was. _He_ thought they were all of an opinion, in agreement about Snape's... his unbelievable _git-ness_ , and then 'Mione does... this. 

Harry had been busy feeling betrayed, sort of like how Gin had felt about them leaving her out of the loop, and he'd forgotten to think about the thing itself. Whatever had happened to 'Mione and led to... this. 

Merlin. 

It's probably good he's talking to Gin now, and it's probably good that Ron isn't there, too. He suspects the conversation wouldn't get very far if he were. 

" _Whatever_ happened took place here," Harry finally manages. "I don't know any details about the attack itself, beyond that it was several Death Eaters. The Headmaster didn't say any more. But I got the impression he considers the threat... managed? Somehow? And the bonding was supposed to help, but I really don't know any more about that either. How that's supposed to work..."

"Merlin, Harry. Didn't you wonder why they were _bonded_?"

He most certainly _did_ , but he suspects that's not what she means. "Well, sure, why she'd marry the greasy..."

Ginny hasn't got the time or patience to listen to that litany, and she's got a bad feeling causing the hairs on the back of her neck to rise. There's also a very real possibility she has mucked something up, but good, in her owl home yesterday. And she's getting a little worried about how her mum will take the news in light of the rumours Ginny had passed along. Probably not well... "No, Harry. Why they were _bonded_ instead of just _married_." 

Given he'd never heard of 'bonding' before yesterday... Hell, the Headmaster had had to interrupt his explanation to the two of them yesterday so Ron could explain to him that was 'basically like married', which he'd done with a thoroughly wooden demeanour. Harry's only known a grand total of two wizarding couples to get married, one of which had effectively eloped. The only married couple other than them he's known longer, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, he'd never have considered asking about their Vows or ceremony. The answer is a clear 'no'. He doesn't bother admitting as much, and Gin doesn't leave him waiting long before she continues anyway.

"Or why in all of the couples bonded, the women are _Muggle-born_?"

Harry honestly hadn't noticed, and he hasn't a clue why, but now the hairs on the back of _his_ neck are beginning to rise. It feels like there's something ominous lurking there, just beyond his comprehension. He valiantly looks... _elsewhere_. "So what difference does a bonding make?" 

"The Vows, Harry. You can structure them so they're Unbreakable."

"So you die?! Like an _Unbreakable Vow_? Why would she do that?!"

"No, Harry, it's kind of the opposite. With an Unbreakable Vow, you're the only one affected, _you_ die if you violate it. You need to uphold it or pay the price. With a bond, _everybody_ needs to obey the Vows. Or pay a price."

"Or they _die_? How the hell does that even work? I didn't even agree to it."

"Not unlike a curse does," she half laughs at him, but she doesn't really sound amused. "Or do you have to agree to those?"

"Yeah, alright. So if _anyone_ breaks it, they _die_?"

"I don't know. I... I don't think so. Probably not. I've never heard of it happening, anyway, but that might depend on the Vows, yeah? I really don't know, Harry. Honestly, I've never known anyone who was bonded, _that's_ how rare it is." 

Harry's beginning to think maybe he should have listened to some of the things Seamus kept saying about bonds this morning. He'd missed the reaction in the Hall last night, and he's getting the idea he missed some crucial details about this whole thing. Like it's staring him in the face, and he's _still_ not seeing it. Maybe it's just Disillusioned, and he's not being ridiculously thick... 

"But I think I can guarantee you this, they took a Fidelity Vow."

"A what now?" He asks, hoping he heard that wrong. 

Ginny completely fries his brain as she tries to explain _that_ to him. When she's done, he's fairly certain his brain has melted just as surely as if someone had Incendioed it. 

"You're saying she could..." He can't even speak the words. He tries one of those strange exercises Professor Taylor is always trying to foist on them, and surprisingly it works. He tries expressing the thought again, this time with more success. "You're saying she could only have sex with _Snape_?" His voice still drops to a whisper, which is even funnier in light of the Muffliato he cast. 

Honestly, he doesn't like thinking about 'Mione having sex. Full stop. With _Snape_ least of all. 

He'll have grounds to revise that thought within minutes. 

"That would be a cornerstone of a _Fidelity Vow_ , yes, Harry."

"Merlin, Gin. You _can't_ tell Ron, he'd go spare."

"He might already know. He isn't Muggle-raised, after all."

Harry considers if that doesn't help account for Ron's far more volatile reaction to the news. He strongly suspects that's only part of the answer, but also that Ron won't have paid as much attention to 'witch stuff' like various forms of marriage as Ginny might. Harry's holding out some hope. He also won't point out that as the wizarding world doesn't seem to permit same-sex marriages, yet, that _those_ forms of marriage are equally likely to involve _wizards_ and can hardly be deemed 'witch stuff'. He's gotten good at recognising losing battles. 

"We can't say as much in front of him. Promise me, Gin. Say you won't." She relents and nods, and he sighs his relief. Frankly, after the boys hadn't told her about the attack and Ron had _let_ her write their mum despite _knowing_ she wasn't aware of critical facts... Well, she's not eager to clear Ron up about _anything_. "But it's not like she... not like she _has_ to? With... With _him_?"

Ginny's eyes go wide and she lets out a huff of disbelief. "No, Harry. There's no... _requirement_ , if that's what you're asking." His sigh of relief is now even more pronounced. "Probably," she adds, teasing a little maliciously. She can't quite help herself. "It's sort of a 'forsaking all others' kind of thing."

"Why on _earth_ would she want to do _that_? You make it sound like a magical chastity belt..." Harry's a bit pants at communicating. Ginny hasn't the foggiest what that is. Witches and wizards had never seen a need for them, and it's nothing an Alohomora wouldn't have sorted, anyway. But it doesn't matter. 

"You really don't get it, do you?" He has no answer for her, just a feeling he's better off not knowing whatever it is she _thinks_ she does, but that it isn't an option. He can feel his neck growing tense, the weight on his shoulders growing heavy. 

"Why do you think _Vows preventing anyone outside of a bond from having sex with Muggle-borns_ would be a response to a _Death Eater attack_? From engaging in _any form of sexual relations_? What _advantage_ do you think that might offer a young woman? _What_ could have motivated Hermione to _bond Snape_? What _protection_ do you think it offers her?"

Harry blanches at the thought he's desperately trying to keep from coalescing in his mind. He's not having much luck. 

If he thought he was a rubbish friend before, he _knows_ he's the literal worst now. He's wrong, of course, but he unfortunately doesn't know _that_. If he felt guilty before, and he did, that's _nothing_ compared to what he feels now. 

He's pretty sure Ginny is implying Hermione was... was sexually assaulted, that the Headmaster had basically told him it was all _his_ fault, listening has never really been his strong suit, and that he had then offended his friend beyond words. 

Or apologies.  
  


Half of him wants desperately to pretend Ginny's wrong. The other half has no idea how he'll ever be able to look Hermione in the eyes again. That will prove problematic, in as much as he'll avoid her far too much and far too long, neither trusting enough to their friendship to weather this, nor having the faintest inkling of how to _help_ her. Sometimes it's enough just to _be there_ , but that's a lesson that some people need to _learn_. 

With horror it occurs to him that this is something _else_ he needs to keep from Ron. The volatile ginger wasn't handling their comparatively _minor_ guilt well. There was no chance he'd handle this _at all_ , never mind _helpfully_.  
  


"Well," Harry finally replies, giving in to denial as the only thing he's capable of voicing, "she _seemed_ alright..."

"She _seemed_ like she was on _Draught of Living Death_ ," Ginny tells him, becoming more sure as she says it that Hermione had been on _something_ yesterday. 

"Not if she was _conscious_ ," Harry corrects. Years of taking Potions with Hermione has left its mark. 

"Fine, one of the Calming Potions then." 

Harry cleverly manages not to tell her the Calming 'Potions' are actually called 'Draughts', and knows for a fact he only knows that because of Hermione. Then he wonders fleetingly what on earth he's going to do without Hermione in that class, and _hates_ himself for thinking it. And then he shudders as he thinks about Ron and Snape. All 'mano a mano'. Or maybe that's 'wand to wand'...

Ginny hadn't progressed to N.E.W.T.s Potions, and it shows. It is, however, fair to note she hadn't done _worse_ than he and Ron had on her O.W.L.s, but as Snape was again teaching the course, an 'E' hadn't been good enough anymore. Once in a while, he thinks she resents them for that. 

She's only taking five N.E.W.T.s like they are, but it hadn't been enough to get her the Prefect's badge for her year. He suspects she hadn't _genuinely_ wanted it any more than Fred or George had, very much of their mindset 'only prats become Prefects' - _possibly_ excepting Hermione, _not_ excepting Ron or Percy in their estimation, but that Ron's frequent teasing has a way of getting under Gin's skin. If he wouldn't keep insisting it made him _superior_ , especially as she seems to feel he's gotten breaks he hasn't exactly earned, she probably wouldn't have an issue with it at all.  
  


" _Physically_ she seemed _fine_ , and she has done since Saturday morning, so she can't have been badly _hurt_ ," Harry tries again. He's feeling wrong-footed, and like a bit of a toad for not having thought of any of the things that seem so obvious to Ginny, and it leaves him, stupidly, with an inopportune urge to regain some ground. He goes on the offensive. "Remember _I_ went to see her this weekend." 

Ginny pinks at the not so hidden reprimand, and unfortunately rather correctly takes it as a challenge. She never balks at a challenge. Things go downhill from there. 

Harry's been having problems with Gin all term, and he feels like he always seems to say just the wrong thing. That's partially because he frequently _does_ , but also because Gin's got her back well up. As Ginny sees it, he'd decided _for_ her that she needed to be 'kept safe', and then dumped her 'for her own good', and she gets enough of that kind of behaviour at home. It makes her see red, and she unexpectedly now finds herself having the same kind of fights with him that she'd had with Dean for much the same reasons. Possibly more so. 

She may be missing that with Harry, it's not an argument about gender roles or what she considers sexist, overly solicitous, antiquated behaviours. She fails to recognise - _at all_ \- that he has a right to decide what vulnerabilities, what _guilt_ he can manage, and that he's pretty much drowning in it as things currently stand. That his decision to run off to the DoM against everyone's advice a year and a half ago had cost Sirius his life, and nearly Hermione hers as well. He hasn't forgotten that responsibility. He's doing the best he can. Sadly, it isn't always apparent or seen as good enough. 

It's not long before it turns into a bit of a slanging match, which will do no one any good at all, least of all Hermione. Both Harry and Ginny will feel guilty enough towards her to quite overshadow their interactions with her for some time to come. 

Highly counterproductive.  
  


Realising they're only making things worse between them, Harry and Ginny finally agree to call a truce, drop the Muffliato as a sort of weak assurance they'll stick to it and try to interact with some of the others at their table. 

Oddly, no one who'd been sitting there able to see them silently arguing seems eager to take them up on it.

  



	64. 11 11d Tuesday - You Can Holler, You Can Wail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Harry, Ginny, Neville, Hafsa, Dhanesh and Kiera Devi, Seamus, Zacharias and Salome Smith, Filius, Poppy, Pomona, Professor Call-Me-Terry Terrence Taylor_

_Realising they're only making things worse between them, Harry and Ginny agree to call a truce and try to interact with some of the others at their table._

_Oddly, no one who'd been sitting there able to see them silently arguing seems eager to take them up on it._

That leaves them perched there even more awkwardly, alternating between staring at the table's surface (Ginny notes, now that she examines it carefully, that it shows no residual signs of yesterday's strange Charm that silenced the Hall) and making a couple of false starts at conversation with the others that they _somehow_ completely overhear. _Despite_ sitting only feet away. They don't even rise to the bait at casual remarks about Quidditch or a new high end collector's grade broom line expected sometime this winter. It's possible, though, that Ritchie and Jack are too taken with the witches sitting with them, and Seamus may just have borrowed a page from Harry's book on ignoring people. 

Fair enough.  
  


Harry and Ginny have no idea how uncomfortable their fighting makes people, especially when, in absence of facts to the contrary, the general assumption is the arguments revolve around their very obviously failed relationship. 

No, _that_ sends most people running faster than the threat of Cerebrumous Spattergroit. 

Admittedly that may be due to an abysmal lack of basic health education at Hogwarts. 

Hmm. Yes. 

Rumour has it the elective and extra-curricular courses had been determined by drawing lots to fill the openings and then throwing the results in the bin as far too sensible and then taking what was left on offer. Ghoul Studies? _Frog Choir_? _Xylomancy_?! 

It's surprisingly close to the truth, actually, but doesn't reflect that there had also been an extremely rare and virulent case of Haemorrhagic Gastroenteritis obscurely and improbably coupled with alcohol poisoning involved in the process. Probably because it _was_ so highly improbable, or possibly just because no one had given it all that much consideration. Or, as everyone involved is now long dead, perhaps it's just been forgotten. 

Highly contagious as the illness was initially, incorrectly, thought to be - after a week's time they came to realise it had been caused by some improperly prepared Plimpie soup served at the last meeting of the Hogwarts Board of Governors - the _entire_ Board had found itself sequestered in a ward of their own at St. Mungo's. It should have been abundantly clear that wouldn't end well. 

Several days into the HBoG HGE outbreak, a number of so stricken members of the Board grew, well, _bored_ with their inability to... imbibe as the virus ran its course. Technically, of course, they were perfectly _capable_ of imbibing, the problem lay in their inability to _retain_ what they'd imbibed long enough to experience any of the usual benefits thereof, and prodigious amounts of a very expensive vintage of Blishen's Firewhisky were wasted in the initial attempts. But they weren't ones to split hairs, and certainly not in any fit state to do so. 

Hermione, on the other hand, who was positively _born_ to split hairs, would naturally point out that the lack of retention of those involved with Hogwarts is a _very_ widespread and pernicious problem, the severity of which shouldn't be underestimated, but no one would thank her for the observation, no matter how valid. Quite typically. 

A theory was concocted, much like one of old Professor Swoopstikes' potions, that alcohol, much like those potions in fact, could be administered directly if only one had the ability and requisite permissions to do so. As their collective abilities weren't worthy of note after five days of sicking up all over their ward, a gullible Healer was pressed into service - Galleons may have changed hands, extremely hollow threats were definitely voiced - permissions were readily granted, and in a couple of shakes their problems were, rather predictably, soon compounded. 

Were the events better known, Poppy would happily use that as another case to illustrate just how Healers' Vows offer _no_ protection to speak of against more or less honest mistakes. Or idiocy. And more's the pity there's no cure for _that_. 

Quite _obviously_ , to anyone not so thoroughly ill, addled or simply _slow_ , the intravenous administration of alcohol proved a _great_ deal more potent than their usual methods of becoming thoroughly pissed and led to the alcohol poisoning. The use of a prohibitively expensive single malt to do so was just... very poorly conceived and in addition undoubtedly wasteful. It certainly did nothing to mitigate the effects of the HGE, and at some point in the throws of all of this, they decided it was past time to overhaul the curriculum. 

Naturally. 

Longstanding Governor Temperance Mathew, never one to be known to so much as nurse a pint, typically eschewing intoxicants in favour of tea, had argued quite vocally against it. Hermione would have liked her. Naturally, Temperance was then summarily deemed an obstructionistic stick in the mud (Hermione would have sympathised) - only they used unflattering synonyms, because 'obstructionistic' proved too unwieldy for drunken tongues (oh, how she would have sympathised) - and promptly locked in a secret broom cupboard until the changes had been ratified. 

Really, there could be no other explanation for it.  
  


As a direct result, none of the students presently studying at Hogwarts has ever learned about Haemorrhagic Gastroenteritis, and the only course in the regular curriculum in which Spattergroit is currently even _mentioned_ is Professor Binns' History of Magic, which unfortunately has never been known to impart knowledge to _any_ of the students. At least none they seem to retain... Ironically and highly atypically, due to the effects that particular strain of Spattergroit seems to have had on the 1877 Quidditch World Cup, the only students who can say more than 'Spattergroit. Bad.' on the subject are aficionados of the sport, and rare individuals like Hermione with extraordinary memories who've read 'Quidditch Through the Ages' for reasons they themselves couldn't begin to define.  
  


All of which helps explain why, although the Gryffindors seated beside Harry and Ginny know they have _no_ desire _whatsoever_ to be party to their relationship... issues, they lack a suitable medical metaphor for it. Why _precisely_ that metaphor should need to be medical is presumably a valid question, the wide world of wizarding sports, despite being woefully comprised predominantly of Gobstones and Quidditch, certainly offers up some of its own, but suffice it to say 'avoiding them like a Bumphed Bludger' lacks the same pithiness. Certainly no further explanation shall be forthcoming at this time. 

Nevertheless, those two get luckier than they probably deserve and are saved from any further social flailing as their availability now coincides with Neville taking the seat next to Harry. He's just finished coordinating with Professor Sprout to schedule his extra hours in the greenhouse for his Herbology internship. That should help mask the odour of Ron's socks. Unfortunately with a more pungent one. 

Neville cheerily tells his Housemates about what he has arranged for his independent study, and while they'll never share his enthusiasm for the subject, both are good enough to be happy for him. Harry will never forget how Neville is there in a pinch, and Ginny has harboured a soft spot for the quiet Gryffindor ever since he took her to the Yule Ball in her third year. He was her first ever sort-of date, and a perfect gentleman. She smiles at him fondly as he gets carried away in his explanation. His pleasure is catching, although not quite as much so as Spattergroit, Cerebrumous or otherwise. 

It's not long before their conversation seems as normal as any other at the table and the awkwardness from minutes ago is a thing of the past.

* * *

  


The Devis, holding hands and smiling gleefully, have finally made their way down to breakfast and are settling in amidst fits of giggles when a single eagle owl comes rushing into the Hall and makes its way unerringly for the boy. Far and wide, there's not another owl in sight, and something about the owl shrieks... smug. _Over-achiever_. If an ill tempered, terminally serious swot could be an owl, he would be precisely _this_ owl. It wears a Gringotts crest, and the scroll it's carrying bears the matching seal. 

Somehow that fits. And undoubtedly regular work with the goblins could sour anyone's mood. 

The bird half fires, half drops the scroll onto Dhanesh's lap, not entirely simple given he was seated at the table, but the owl's aim is a damn sight better than the current Hufflepuff Chasers', before flapping its way back out of the room, not evening pausing to cadge a bite off his plate. The boy soon rips the scroll open to a chorus of happy 'woohoo's, not that anyone knows quite what he's on about, but he and his bondmate exchange a fairly triumphant hug. 

Should anyone have missed the display, it happens, the Devis' presence becomes even more noticeable when Professor Flitwick then calls for Dhanesh, still sporting his tail rather impressively, to come up and see him. 

Dhanesh can't resist giving it some demonstrative flicks and flourishes as he goes, having learnt to manipulate the thing almost masterfully thanks to some quite rigorous practice the past night. He has the bags under his eyes to show for it and a fairly debauched grin. That _isn't_ going to help his case in the least. 

Pomona chuckles, watching the boy as he goes, shaking her head and thinking of Minerva. When the Devi boy reaches the High Table, Filius breaks it to him firmly that the tail needs to go. There's a bit of futile negotiation, followed by undignified whinging. Filius is far too experienced to fall for that. He couches it as a health issue, Poppy had said it wouldn't be good for his skin after all. 

The Matron kindly backs him up, nodding, "I _said_ we couldn't leave it long, Mr. Devi." 

Good woman in a pinch, Poppy. They'd told her about Minerva's reaction and had come to the mutual conclusion they should probably sort it before their colleague laid eyes upon the boy again. After all, _they_ were the ones who had decided to let it go last night, and ultimately _Minerva_ would be the one, as his Head of House, who would have to answer for it to the young man's parents. It wasn't quite fair of them. 

"But I thought we had at least until Friday..." he whinges some more. 

In a whiny tone that proves _particularly_ amusing while leaving one questioning if the boy is really mature enough to be married, Mr. Devi's coup de grâce, naturally, is that they're on _honeymoon_ , and 'the thing is _dead useful_ '. Poppy may have inhaled some tea when he said it, and Pomona can't quite stifle a chuckle and whispers something to Filius about 'cavorting'. Minerva's just lucky she's elsewhere. There's no conceivable way she wouldn't have choked at that; she seems intent on elevating it to an art form.

Alas, it's not quite the killing argument the lad had hoped. 

With the possible exception of its effect on Professor Taylor, that is. He sounds like he's about to do himself a mischief laughing. He's been quite enjoying his morning, regaling Poppy with the story of how Madam Snape had swept in to fetch Minerva.  
  


It's all the more puzzling as he _wasn't_ present as it occurred. 

That was no impediment to his story telling, though, and he took the bits and pieces he had from Pomona and Filius and artfully span together a story three times as long. It wasn't a _bad_ story, in fact it was well told and it would have been more than diverting were Poppy less invested in the individuals involved or less cognisant of her recent manipulations, theoretically on their behalves. But given Poppy had actually _seen_ the young woman very shortly before she appeared in the Hall, it provided her with quite some insight into Taylor's fabrications. In particular, the idea of Madam Snape's _exceedingly_ fitted clothing and _wildly_ tousled hair seemed to have caught his fancy. 

Poppy's been growing increasingly annoyed with Professor Taylor, _Terrence_ , the longer he natters on and makes a note to avoid the seat next to him whenever possible moving forward. She also now suspects she knows where Madam Snape took their colleague and why. 

Good for her. 

Quite probably good for Severus as well. 

Poppy's becoming less patient the longer she sits there, thinking perhaps she also should have a word with Minerva herself. And looking at Professor Taylor with some pique, Poppy resolves to sort the 'hair issue' before the young woman heads to class. There's no need to give rise to more rumours. 

The Mediwitch feels a little guilty for not liking the DADA Professor more. Or at all, really. He's done nothing wrong that she could put a finger on, he seems... inoffensive enough. She just can't seem to warm to him. 

What's worse, she can remember quite clearly when he was... What would he have been, a second year Hufflepuff? Just a wee thing, well, _extremely_ , and apparently one of the older students had hit him with a very seriously miscast Sonorous and shrunk him to the size of a vole. There are some _incredibly_ good reasons that spell isn't part of the syllabus, although naturally they wouldn't want the children able to shout that loudly even if the Charm were ridiculously easy. Filius had needed _days_ to get him back to regular size. They'd never seen a Sonorous so badly cast before _or_ since. 

Mr. Taylor had been brought to her in an old Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans box someone had thoughtfully stuffed with some batting, and Poppy had taken care of him for the week it took to finally get him sorted. He never revealed the identity the child who'd done it to him, showing more backbone than she'd expected, insisting he was 'no grass'. He'd been very little bother, was friendly and polite enough, as he remains to the current day even... and yet she _still_ doesn't like him. 

There's no accounting for taste.

* * *

  


"Be that as it may, Mr. Devi, be that as it may. And perhaps that's not _quite_ something that should be shared with your Professors over breakfast, but I'm sure it's good to know," Filius does his best to keep his face neutral. Pomona firmly bites her cheek in her struggle to suppress her chuckles. "Still, I'm afraid it must be done. Would you mind turning..." A curious arc of Filius' wand and the boy is back to his previous form, although he can't seem to stop rubbing the spot where the tail now isn't. 

"I did say it wouldn't be good for your tissues, Mr. Devi. If you have problems, please stop by the Infirmary, and we'll get you a Salve." The notion of dropping his trousers and pants before the Matron proves sobering enough to enable him to stop his rubbing. She bites back her smile at his look of pure mortification. The insights into his conjugal exploits that he'd provided anyone within earshot hadn't brought a blush to his cheeks, but _that_... It's typical, she finds, of the youth of today. 

The boy looks so crestfallen that Filius leans towards him and whispers, "May I suggest just having your sister teach you the Charm? Then you could perform it at will and no one else would ever have to know." 

The boy looks a good deal happier as he heads back to the table calling for his sister, apropos of nothing. Pomona leans over and tells him, "I don't think anyone else knowing was quite his issue."

"No, I believe you're right about that, my dear," Filius laughs his slightly squeaky laugh in return.

* * *

  


Looking about, Harry and Ginny determine the Smiths, too, have finally made an appearance. Further looking around, and they're forced to acknowledge there's still no sign of Hermione. _Or_ Snape. 

"What, I mean, _why_ do you suppose they're... _Where_ do you think she is?" Harry asks, finally settling on a formulation that didn't seem to broach any of the very long list of things he doesn't wish to broach, possibly more so now that Neville has joined him, although he'd been quite unwilling either way. 

"I don't know, but I don't think we handled it well yesterday, and I imagine she isn't all too eager to see any of us," Ginny answers, further demonstrating her superior grasp of the situation. 

"Are you two talking about Hermione?" Neville asks. Harry nods. "She was here earlier," he tells them and fills them in. Neither knows quite what to think. 

Of course, it's not quite fitting with the image of a victim Harry's been trying not to envision. 

Doubtless that will only cause more problems.

* * *

  


The Smiths' presence now also becomes all the more evident as the first of the mail owls swoops in bearing a Howler for Zacharias. 

Poppy sighs, "That's our quiet breakfast gone for a burton..." to no one in particular, but Taylor quickly agrees with her. Naturally, that only makes her like him less. 

Mr. Smith's father had done the honours and soon his voice is booming through the Hall. " _ **ZACHARIAS SMITH...**_ " 

It's unsurprising that _he_ sent it given the personalities in their family, but a recent survey conducted of its readership by 'Witch Weekly' determined that upwards of ninety percent of all Howlers sent are indeed sent by women. It's possible, however, that their survey sample was biased, it being a periodical primarily for _witches_ , as the name might suggest. Scientifically robust methods of data acquisition are also not part of the curriculum at Hogwarts. 

Zacharias, officious tosspot though he may be, probably doesn't deserve the public humiliation associated with the Howler, and a few people, Filius and Poppy not least among them, will notice there don't seem to be any owls circling, searching unsuccessfully for Albus. It's hard to say for sure, from their standpoints, if he receives _any_ complaints, as the Headmaster still hasn't appeared for the meal. That's been happening more and more often of late. Staff suspect the war and leading the Order alongside the school is taking its toll. They're only right in part, but then only one of their number knows about the curse slowly overwhelming Albus' body, and _he's_ sleeping upstairs in the Infirmary. 

Zacharias is spared some of the embarrassment he could otherwise expect as another owl almost immediately descends with a Howler for Dhanesh. Kiera is kind enough to do the blushing for him, in a lovely bit of teamwork, and she's also taken to rubbing the spot on his very much lower back where his tail had been. The smile he'd had before he received the Howler would seem to indicate he liked that quite a bit. They're generally cute together. Currently they're _mortified_ together. But as his mum's voice echoes off the walls, it becomes increasingly difficult to understand either Howler. 

Pomona's laissez-faire attitude towards the Smiths' bond lasts right up until the moment she in turn gets _her_ Howler from Mr. Smith, but by this point no one can understand a word of it. The tone, however, is clear enough, but with a Red Howler, that was basically a given. She'd rather been hoping it wouldn't come, but she remembers Mr. Smith Sr. from his days as a student in her House from way back when she very first started teaching at Hogwarts, and he hasn't mellowed with the years. She thinks he's more like vinegar than wine, becoming more bitter over time. 

Isolated snippets of parental outrage stand out from the din, nothing that shouldn't have been expected, but Salome puts an end to all of it by turning the now quite thoroughly reddened Zach, his complexion is truly ideal for it, bodily towards her and snogging him nearly senseless. The cheer that goes up from the student body drowns out whatever anyone could still make out of the Howlers. 

They've pretty much played out entirely when the students get themselves back under control, presumably in response to Filius' squeaking, effective as always, except for one last and now somewhat exasperated sounding, " **Oh and, Kiera, welcome to the family, I suppose.** " Culminating in a dramatic sigh and then followed by a terse, " **I _will_ expect to see you _both_ on the next Hogsmeade trip for tea** ," from Mrs. Devi. 

Hafsa can't help herself, it makes her laugh, and soon others follow suit and the discomfort is all but forgotten.  
  


Forgotten, that is, by almost everyone except for Ginny, who now looks supremely uncomfortable and very nervous. 

"Gin?" Harry tries to coax her. 

"I owled mum. Yesterday. With the news." She doesn't sound good. 

Harry hasn't forgotten the Howler Mrs. Weasley had sent Ron their second year. It was the first he'd ever seen or heard, which would probably make it memorable enough, but it had been... quite distinctive in its own right. The woman certainly had a talent for them. 

"Do you think your mum will send one?" He asks her rather horrified, especially in light of what they'd discussed just before. 

Ginny just looks more uncomfortable, "I wouldn't rule it out."

Harry pales at his next thought, "Do you think she'd send it to Hermione? _Or Snape_?" Neville's pumpkin juice seems to magically relocate to inside his nasal passages. Fudge on a broomstick. He's never been happier not to be in that class. 

All the colour drains from Ginny's face and possibly her entire body. She goes a really unhealthy shade of pale at the previously unconsidered possibility. "Merlin, Harry! He'll have me for potions stock!" 

"Too right," Neville somewhat unhelpfully, but automatically, agrees. 

"You think you've got it bad, _you're_ not in his class anymore," Harry reminds her. 

"He wouldn't take it out on you..." She half asks, hoping it's true. 

Harry isn't sure that it is. He and Snape have never gotten on. That was evident as recently as... yesterday. He shrugs. "Maybe. If not, there's always Ron..." Harry doesn't need to complete the thought. 

Ginny knows she won't get another bite down. She pushes her plate from her, muttering something about needing to get to class and bolts from the table, hoping to be long gone before any such Howler, Snape or Hermione appear. 

Seamus calls out for her to wait, he wants to go visit Dean before class, and chases after her to catch up. The doors to the Great Hall clang shut behind them.

  



	65. 11 11e Tuesday - Poste Serpente

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Draco, Theo Nott, Blaise Zabini, Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, Harper Hutchinson, Ella Wilkins, Pansy, Tracey Davis, Alberta Runcorn; Narcissa, Lucius, Bellatrix, Norman Nott; Severus, Poppy; Rita Skeeter, Barnabas Cuffe, Maude_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet another chapter with little mention of Severus and no Hermione. There _is_ a method to my madness, but I appreciate your patience. :-) Next chapter we're back to Hermione and Minerva visiting Severus in the Infirmary.
> 
> On the off chance it needs saying, any convolutions herein were always intended and should not be taken as a swipe, left, right or otherwise, at Ailuropods.

On the far side of the hall, where the Slytherins sit, strange things have been taking place while all this was going on. 

As the bonded couples - if one overlooks Professor Snape that is, not that that comes easy, but it's considerably more so in his absence - stem from Gryffindor and Hufflepuff, the Howlers and attendant attention had been focused on _their_ side of the Hall. It helps that the Ravenclaws act as a buffer between them and the snakes, and have thus far been exempted from the proceedings. The Slytherins, naturally, aren't quite so lucky, some amongst them having given rise to the whole miserable affair, after all.

Many parties would be _very_ remiss were the boys to go without their slice of misery. 

Slytherins are rarely remiss, and those in question even less so when it comes to misery. 

They also almost never resort to Howlers. 

First, they're considered déclassé. _Vulgar_. 

Given the strength of their feelings on the matter, that should be more than sufficient grounds to avoid them, no second reason would be required. 

Nevertheless, complicated creatures that they are, Slytherins _naturally_ have more reasons. They _always_ have more reasons. Lack of a multitude of reasons is practically grounds to be removed from their House. The shame alone... It hardly bears considering. 

Howlers reflect badly on the senders _and_ recipients, they air dirty laundry in public. They declare for all to hear who knows what and how they feel about it. _Any_ of that could give others _leverage_. While it _might_ not bother the senders to give everyone in the school such leverage over the persons who so outraged them, the fact of the matter is _that_ outrage is necessary to generate a Red Howler in the first place, and that in turn provides all assembled with a toehold to worm their way through the senders' defences. No Slytherin in their right mind would resort to it, unless they were using it to make some obscure point. It's hardly worth it.  
  


Instead they send Poste Serpente. 

Paper Serpents, mail snakes. Suitably _convoluted_ things. Rumour has it the magic stems from Salazar Slytherin himself, having recognised the need. They aren't opened in the Hall, _never_ in front of outsiders. But the more of their own House the recipients can convince to attend a Serpent's opening, the less painful its bite will be, and all agree: it's still plenty painful enough. 

Typically the Serpents arrive with the other mail at breakfast and immediately slither into position, wrapping themselves several times and quite... snugly around the addressee's wrist, then temporarily becoming as inert as a wooden shackle. Nothing more than bangles to look at. Innocuous enough. Virtually no one outside of their House has ever noticed them. There's an eight hour period of grace for word to spread, to try to convince as many of their Housemates as possible to come watch before those shackles tighten, _constrict_ , and soon the letter must be opened. No one's ever made it even close to the ninth hour. 

Eight hours certainly provides plenty of opportunity to reflect on the misdeeds that led to such measures. It sounds like a great deal of time, objectively, that is until one finds oneself with one of those things on one's wrist. It's frequently a very tight schedule that leaves the students running back to their House after the last class of the day. Merlin help the poor student stuck all the way out in the greenhouses for Herbology. And not by coincidence, the Slytherins' Quidditch team practice is rarely scheduled during that first hour after classes.

It really only leaves what remains of breakfast and the lunch period to try to beg, barter and grovel to sway the others to observe. Still, they generally flock to do so in great numbers, either to laugh or to help. Both ends of the spectrum are covered, and failing either inclination, there's always self-interest: do it for them, so they'll do it for you. It leaves little reason not to attend. 

Once everyone is gathered, a single tap of the blighted student's wand is sufficient for the Serpents to uncoil and spring into action, hissing their accusations and grievances for all to hear before sinking their tiny vellum fangs into their victims. Generally, they go for the throat. 

The sting is very... intense. 

Whoever created them, whether it was Salazar or not, was no fool, recognising the advantages to public humiliation, group censure, while skirting the disadvantages. As there's no way of knowing until it's opened it _what_ information it might reveal, the Slytherins _all_ swear not to use anything derived from such post against one another, leaving sender and recipient similarly protected. It's an Oath every single one of them takes as a Firstie. The more present who have taken that Oath, the less vicious the bite. No one has ever tried opening one in front of an outsider. Logic dictates that would prove painful. They're quite right about that. 

One of the obvious benefits of Poste Serpente encouraging the presence of spectators to its opening is it permits the students to learn from their Housemates' mistakes. That fact alone is argument enough that a Head of Slytherin had created the spell. It's proven quite effective over the centuries. But those lessons often last only until the affected students have graduated, or at most until everyone who was in the House with them at the time has done so. Generations upon generations of students seem drawn to trying much the same things, repeating the same mistakes. The Baron swears: there's nothing truly new under the sun. 

Somewhat unusually, the spell seems to be concerned with... fairness. A Serpent can only be created by speaking the _truth_. But as any Slytherin knows, the truth is frequently highly... relative. All grievances hissed are true as the _sender_ sees it. That doesn't mean it's _objectively_ so, which is why there are little known safeguards against abuse. 

There's an interesting side effect of forcing others to watch that usually only a very few of the upperclassmen have deduced. Generally the students don't learn about it until they're old enough and versed enough to try to send a Serpent of their own, and of an inclination to do so for specious reasons, and then they tend to keep the results to themselves to prevent... manipulations. Those observing serve as a _jury_. If they find the grievance just, the Serpent's fangs will strike home. If _not_ , the _sender_ will find him or herself on the receiving end of an inordinately painful hex the next time they're alone, all the more so as they haven't got the witnesses present that somehow magically mitigate the sting.  
  


Vincent Crabbe demonstrated that for his friends most... distinctly last year. 

He had taken Ella Wilkins, the sixth years' female Prefect, on a date _once_ last winter, before she quite reasonably determined she'd really rather... not. It speaks for her that she was willing to give him a chance, and probably against her that she needed the date to determine they weren't suited. Any of her roommates could have told her that, which is almost funny, as she's a terribly bright girl, but seems not to have been sufficiently so to have avoided him. 

Frankly, her kind heart got in the way, and she thought she shouldn't listen to the rumours, and she should give him a chance. Not _one_ of the other seventh years didn't laugh when they heard her logic, but they probably liked her a little more thereafter. She really is a genuinely decent person, if perhaps a bit naïve. Considering she was only fifteen at the time, that might not be so unreasonable. 

When Vince had asked her out for the Valentine's Hogsmeade trip, Ella politely declined. And she _had_ already made plans to go to Madam Puddifoot's with Harper instead. Vince got his knickers in a twist and sent her a Serpent. Typically, everyone gathered for her to open the letter, in her case mostly to help. Out came the hissed accusations, all present stood around shaking their heads in disbelief at his gall, and then... nothing. The paper snake just fell to ash and then even _that_ Vanished. Normally when it's finished, at least the pile of ash would remain. Most assumed Vince had come a cropper, which wasn't so far fetched, providing only further reason why a clever thing like her shouldn't have even bothered casting a Tempus for him. 

That consensus held until after that evening's Quidditch practice when Vince was in the shower and finally alone again for the first time. The other boys heard his shrieks and came running, only to find him unconscious on the floor, the water pouring over him. Blaise turned off the faucets, and Draco Mobilicorpused him while Gregory had Transfigured something shapeless but thoroughly covering from a nearby towel. 

As sartorial choices go, everyone would agree they should have left the clothing to Blaise, but he was busy making sure his roommate didn't drown, his priorities aren't _completely_ worthless, and it wasn't exactly a fashion show after all. Still, Vince looked like a giant terry cloth Flobberworm when Gregory was through with him. Of course _that's_ precisely when Harper reappeared, quite usefully with his camera, and oh so helpfully preserved the moment as they then sort of pushed Vince along to Madam Pomfrey. 

He never said what happened, just pummelled Harper until he forked over the picture, after a subtle Geminio of course, and they still wouldn't know what occurred to this day if Draco hadn't performed a spot of Legilimency on Vince. 

The Serpent had come back to bite him, apparently with a vengeance.  
  


Draco shared that with their other roommates, and the boys learned from the experience. Not one of the other four in Vince's year has sent a remotely questionable Serpent. That slightly excessive caution leaves them sending almost none. 

And they gained some insights into their workings. 

For Draco, that's made a real difference. 

Realistically, the Malfoy heir's life hasn't been great since the Dark Lord returned. Truthfully, it's been _hellish_ ever since his father... disappointed You-Know-Who at the Department of Mysteries and landed in Azkaban a year and a half ago. Not that Draco would ever admit as much; he's not quite suicidal. Yet. And the reintroduction of his aunt into his life has been a _very_ mixed blessing that on balance has done more harm than good.

As direct result of all of that, he's been receiving Serpents with some regularity all this year. Not a week goes by without one, usually more. That was hardly surprising considering the lack of progress he's made on his... task, or the characters of his father and aunt. His father, in fact, has sent far fewer of late, not that it was occasion to celebrate as the reasons for that decline were frankly worrisome, and unfortunately his aunt feels more than entitled to pick up any perceived slack. 

But as Bellatrix is far too cautious, even despite the Oath that protects the Serpents' secrets, to _ever_ disclose any details of what she considers to be Draco's transgression, all that her snakes divulge week after week is that he _still_ hasn't done as he was charged. It was never much to go on, and frankly it's gotten somewhat... old, and his Housemates have a difficult time mustering any righteous indignation to find him guilty of much of anything. 

With each passing week, in correlation to their growing apathy to his aunt's unvoiced... issues, the bite has become less painful. Additionally, he's thought to mimic the expected results, twitching and crying out, and that just seems to make his Housemates even _less_ inclined to see him punished for the very same poorly defined thing the next week. It doesn't hurt that he's willing to stand them all a round of Butterbeers or a selection of Honeydukes' finest when they're through for having assisted. 

Further improving his situation, as a result of Vince's experience last year, Draco's learned to carefully select his audience. For one thing, he's taken to avoiding having fellow seventh year Alberta Runcorn join their other Housemates when he opens his Serpents. She loathes him with a _passion_. There is _no claim_ than can be made against him that she won't find _completely_ justified on principle. 

He suspects she had liked him initially, but when he started dating Pansy a few years ago, her feelings had been hurt. His instincts are correct, but he often doubts them. Then again, her dislike of him is so pronounced as to make the possibility she had ever felt differently seem _exceedingly_ far fetched. 

Likewise he avoids having anyone else present with whom he's at odds. _That_ can be hard to keep track of. Still, it's proven well worth the effort. 

But Draco's a Slytherin through and through, and he is careful not to allow those exclusions to become too conspicuous. When he's unable to arrange it organically, he couches it as a conscious decision to accept _more_ pain by having fewer observers in order not to be indebted to certain individuals. That's an explanation all have accepted, except the very few who know better, and as he fakes the difference, even they don't suspect... Much. 

It enables him to appear more loyal to the Dark Lord than he is, and simultaneously keeps anyone from thinking too closely about the fact those he chooses to have present must therefore be _less_ loyal to 'the cause'. And of course the Oath keeps them from discussing it adequately amongst themselves and discovering otherwise.  
  


Unfortunately for Draco, after tonight, there will be no more leniency to be found in his approach. Not for him or any of the other boys. It won't matter _what_ they're accused of, everyone will assume they more than deserve it. 

They're probably right.

* * *

  


Gregory and Vince have only just made it back from the Infirmary, where Nurse Wainscott gave Vince an Itching Antidote and a Teregeo that left his nose feeling turned wrong-side out. Brutal. His nose, never his finest feature, _is_ fairly swollen and now every bit as red as his eyes, which could almost give the Dark Lord's a run for their Galleon, and he keeps shooting Harper dark, rather reddish glances the Chaser can't fathom in the least. But then how could he? _His_ cat hasn't left his room. 

They've begun helping themselves to breakfast when the Howlers start arriving. Unlike Draco, they have no idea what's probably in store for them, or why, and Malfoy's hardly been in any shape to tell them, nor would he have been able to do so thanks to the Oath he gave Severus. As a result, they're taken quite by surprise when the Serpents follow soon after.

Draco receives one first. His father's owl. The Serpent hasn't finished wrapping itself around his wrist when one from his aunt follows suit. Owls bearing Serpents for Goyle and Blaise come next. No less than three people had Flooed Blaise's mother from the Manor last night to be _sure_ he wouldn't be left out; it did the job. By now the rest of the table is on high alert. 

Vince scans the ceiling, waiting. He's honest enough with himself that he knows those three won't have gotten Serpents unless he will, too. In an unhealthy combination of masochism and ambition, he'll even be dissatisfied when Draco gets more Serpents than he does. He'll see it as a personal failing on his part. Sure enough, his father's owl soars in next. It's probably not a good thing given the severity of his allergy attack the previous night and the lack of sleep he'd had, but he's twisted enough to welcome it just the same. 

Theo logically isn't all _that_ surprised when he sees his father's owl come flying towards him shortly after, but it's not the given that it is with the other four. When _they're_ up to their ears in it, _he's_ frequently the odd wizard out. They all pretend it's because he's the only one not on the Quidditch team, but truthfully, he's a softer, gentler person. Those less fond of him might go so far as to call him timid. 

Perversely, he's almost relieved to receive an owl, because it means he hasn't disappointed his father again by _not_ taking part in whatever mischief his roommates have been up to. That his father _is_ disappointed with him is a _given_ , he wouldn't be getting a Serpent otherwise, but that's pretty much the rule of things. He _always_ disappoints him. He just prefers to have disappointed him through his actions rather than his inactions. Or at least, that's what he thinks. By tonight he'll have changed his mind. 

It comes as a complete shock, then, when his father's owl drops a scroll in his lap instead, before continuing on to Draco. Norman Nott's owl then proceeds to give the blond his _third_ Serpent of the morning. The only good thing about it is Draco won't have to lobby to get the others to show up for the Serpents' opening. They'll be far too curious to want to miss it. 

_Three_! Merlin's beard! Many of their fellow Slytherins hiss in apprehension when they see it. How appropriate, really, given the subject matter. 

Severus would _hate_ that they hiss. It just draws more attention to the proceedings. He'd think they need to work on their subtlety. In truth, with the three Howlers currently howling in the Hall, almost no one is paying them any attention. And they _certainly_ can't hear them hiss. 

A seventh owl approaches and with a shudder Draco recognises that it's his mother's eagle owl Mercury. He mumbles something that could almost be a prayer, not that Merlin listens, hoping against hope the bird isn't bearing what would be his fourth Serpent. _None_ of them have ever seen anyone handle more than three at a time, and that hadn't gone well. He's not sure he's remotely up for it. After Sunday's accident and yesterday's Crucios... 

Although it could have been far worse. Theo's Antispasmodic last night _had_ helped greatly. He was incredibly lucky his friend had some and was willing to part with it. 

With a sinking feeling, he watches the bird draw closer. 

"Merlin, Draco," Theo whispers. "What did you _do_?"

Draco still has an Oath guaranteeing he can't answer that, and he just shakes his head. He's luckier than his Gryffindor counterparts are - not that the number of Serpents on his arm would lead him to believe that - in that his friends are quicker on the uptake that he probably _can't_ tell them what happened. Theo just claps a reassuring hand to his shoulder. It's a nice gesture, but it won't help with the Serpents. 

When Mercury settles before him, Draco can hardly contain his relief to see he's only bearing a scroll for him. It's probably better than he deserves, and he knows it, and the sensation is so acute, so _overwhelming_ for a moment that he feels his eyes begin to tear up.  
  


There's a fundamental drawback to the Serpents. The messages they contain are either exclusively those hissed, or - if there's additional information intended only for the eyes of the recipient - once they're done imparting the Stinging Serpent Hex, they Transfigure into a simple scroll of parchment that can be read... upon recovery. The obvious problem is that it generally leaves no one the wiser about whatever is going on for a good eight hours or so, and few think to send a regular scroll along with them to clarify things earlier. They've been communicating this way for so long, they forget to question it. In a society where so many people still correspond almost exclusively via owl, it probably doesn't strike them as a problem. 

Narcissa, it must be said, has more brains than the vast majority of the people hidden under her roof, and possibly fewer life threatening distractions. She also knows the people around her very well. As Severus had reported that Draco is the only one of the boys left with any memory of the events from Friday, and it will most likely be hours before anyone else has any information from their Serpents, she had taken the liberty of writing to let him know what was said last night. She also assumed it might not be the... entire truth. As such, her letter to Draco will allow him to behave in a manner consistent with the facts... as presented. 

Narcissa is also far too smart to put potentially sensitive information in an owl for just anyone to see. 

At first glance, it appears to be a thoroughly inane recounting of a recent shopping expedition. She'd ordered new dress robes at Madam Malkin's and encountered Mrs. Greengrass there. They _really_ must take tea with her and her daughters some time, _so_ pleasant. (He silently wonders if she's ever _met_ Daphne.) She saw some robes at Malkin's she'd like to order for Draco as well, and wants him to have himself measured on his next trip to Hogsmeade. He resolves that he _just_ might do that. It would probably be the only positive thing to come of all this... 

But Draco recognises the magic on the scroll instantly, a very old Charm passed down in his family, on the Malfoy side it should be noted, that hides the true text of the message until the intended recipient opens it and casts the proper Revelio. It will have to wait until he gets some privacy. 

He gives Mercury a couple of rashers of his bacon, that's how glad he is to see him only bearing a letter, and tells him to wait in the owlery for him to send a reply later. The other owls have departed. In their experience, no one rewards them for delivering Poste Serpente. But they're clever creatures. They also know if they stop by the owlery before returning home, they'll be fed regardless. There may even be a mouse in it for them. 

That leaves Theo as the only one of them who apparently has a scroll that might shed light on things.  
  


Everyone watches expectantly as he tears open the seal on his owl to reveal just a very few lines. Given Norman Nott is one of the escapees from Azkaban still being sought - not that official quarter admits there even _was_ an escape - and owl mail is notoriously unsafe from tampering, both from the Ministry and the staff at school, the scroll says next to nothing. Norman is no fool, and he wouldn't put anything incriminating into an owl. But what it _does_ say is something Theo is sure he's never seen before. 

His father tells him that there was an incident at the school. That _Theo_ had apparently shown good sense and intervened, keeping the situation under control, _averting disaster_ , until his Head of House had been able to get there and resolve the matter once and for all. That the Headmaster in a fit of madness, panic and ill will had then had Professor Snape bonded to a Mudblood. (He leaves it open whether it was a punitive act of retaliation or perhaps for proof of his loyalty.) That Theo should support his Head in _any_ way possible as best he can in this difficult situation...

_And that Norman Nott is proud of his son._  
  


Theo doesn't think he's ever seen or heard those words in his life. 

His eyes are now just as damp as Draco's.  
  


It's an incomplete picture, extremely so, and that's a little inopportune in as much as Draco's rather uselessly the only one with any _more_ information. In the absence of further details, the others boys are left wondering if they received the Serpents for _not helping Theo_ or not demonstrating equally _good sense_. 

Neither is exactly... incorrect. 

If only they knew. 

It won't be until late this afternoon that anyone will learn more, and by then a few decisions will have been made about how to handle the situation that, had they been in possession of the facts, might have had very different outcomes. Pride naturally will then demand that they stay their course. Instead they'll seek justifications for their actions, which probably works as well as any other approach.

And peer pressure will more than compensate where pride fails.

* * *

  


Every member of their House down to the very last Firstie will be present for the opening of the Serpents that afternoon. Strange things are happening in the castle, and those raised in wizarding society are a good deal more aware of that fact than the Muggle-born and -raised. The absence of either of those in their House means more cumulative unease, and they've succeeded in making each other still more nervous in response to those events than the students of the other Houses. 

The involvement of their Head of House in those goings-on naturally only exacerbates that reaction. And that the politics of many of their families may somehow play a direct role is a matter for some concern...

The concentration of Serpents this quickly on the heels of yesterday's announcement definitely gets their attention... And the fact Malfoy received _three_... Merlin, many of them have never seen anyone get so many at once before. 

Flitwick will be surprised to have one of his fourth years run out on him when he tries to provide him with individual assistance after class for a troublesome Charm this afternoon. Hooch will be even more shocked to have the Slytherin half of her class of first years drop their brooms as though synchronised and run from the field at the end of the lesson. And Pomona simply won't know _what_ to think when a number of her students make a dash from the room before the period is even _over_. Their mumbled excuses will overlap so thoroughly, she won't be able to understand a word, although some of that might be residual tinnitus from the morning's Howler. Those things are almost as bad as young unearthed Mandrake roots. Without the earmuffs. 

By dinner every single Slytherin will be left with the awareness that _whatever_ happened Friday - details won't be provided, and the boys won't be able to supply any - it's _entirely_ the seventh year boys' fault that their Head of House is now _bonded_. Bonding is a life sentence. There's _no way out_ for the man. _Nothing_ could have been worth that price. And the _boys_ hadn't been the ones to _pay_ it. 

There also won't be the least question in their minds that this was meant to punish Professor Snape in the harshest way imaginable for what the boys had done. The longer they think about it, the harsher it will seem, and _far_ more creative than they'd ever given the Headmaster credit for. A few will wonder - just as a mental exercise - if a stint in Azkaban, thoroughly undeserved, of course, but then so was _this_ , would have been kinder. Insistance on _bonding_ the man was bad enough. But to a _student_? A _Gryffindor_? 

And a _Muggle-born_ at that? 

No matter their personal feelings about blood-status, and that varies a great deal more within the House than outsiders think, every last one of them knows that's... problematic at present. Some, obviously, will phrase that as 'Mudblood', but that only makes that unspecified transgression of the boys greater in their eyes. They'll be the ones to make assumptions that the death of the bondmate won't be an... option, much to the horror of some of the others, both at the thought and the ramifications. That will make the _sentence_ , the bonding seem even _worse_. 

Regardless _what_ they think about the Gryffindor's blood status, _all of this_ will make them far more sympathetic towards the Professor, more tolerant of his situation, and when he demands their respect for his bondmate, she _will_ get it. _He's_ owed that much. 

And conversely, they will have no sympathy _whatsoever_ with the boys. Their lives are about to become a great deal less pleasant. 

Blaise will be the first to discover that when he opens his Serpent. Draco will be desperately postponing things. Vince will want to hear the accusation first to try to judge if he should open his in front of _everyone_ , or a smaller group. Gregory won't give it much thought either way, which will leave Blaise welcome to take the lead.

Zabini will correctly reason that if the others are put out of commission by their Serpents, that will be fewer onlookers for him. He couldn't have anticipated how bad it would be, but even then, his logic still holds. Possibly the shock of hearing the Serpent's news the first time will make his punishment worse, but not by much. 

The complete mortification of his Housemates when they hear _he's_ somehow responsible for their Head's predicament... When the Serpent strikes, it will hit with the full intensity. Maybe even more so. That will certainly provide his roommates with food for thought. For another day. 

After Blaise is almost flattened by his snake, Vince will desperately suggest he open his only in front of the remaining boys from his year. They'll accommodate him and withdraw to their room. His hope will be that they won't blame him as much as the others do. Draco, in fact, blames him more than they _ever_ could, and the three Serpents around his wrists won't make him more sympathetic. Had that potion of Crabbe's never come into play, Severus wouldn't be bonded and none of this would have happened. 

When Vince's Serpent further hisses that his father had had to endure multiple Crucios, although the man's own stubbornness may have more accurately been the cause, but still... Coupled with the fact Vince's request to do this in relative privacy risks exposing one of the key secrets of the Poste Serpente... 

When _his_ snake strikes, it will go for his nose with an intensity heretofore unmatched. Rather unfortunate in light of his recent allergy attack, but those Crucios appear to have angered his father, and hearing about it will just make the others feel he deserves whatever is coming. 

The secret of the Serpent will remain uncompromised, as the Stinging Serpent Hex will prove strong enough to render Crabbe unconscious, and the rest of their House will assume that was due to having too few witnesses, and he'd only insisted upon it to hide his shame. Naturally they'll speculate as to what that could be, which won't improve his situation in the least. 

Theo will have to Mobilicorpus Vince back to the Infirmary. He won't be thrilled when he wakes there, especially as he'd only just been thanks to last night's allergic reaction. But for the moment, they'll leave him floating in the Common Room until they're done. 

Gregory will turn apologetically to Draco and ask if he minds letting him go first. The thought that Draco will surely succumb and leave one spectator less will remain unspoken. As lackeys go, the boy has some heart. Draco won't be able to fault his logic and still won't be in any rush to open his. The Serpent's sting will prove on par with Blaise's. The pain will rock Gregory, but as a Beater he's rather used to that. He will remain upright. Barely. 

None of which will be encouraging for Draco. They each will have only faced one Serpent. He'll still have _three_ to look forward to. 

The first two will go for his neck. By the second Serpent, Theo and Harper will have to brace him knowing he can't afford to lose consciousness before the last one is opened. It will continue to constrict; no one knows of any way to stop it. With a bit of panic they'll realise: no one is sure that wouldn't cost him a limb. 

Only half conscious, which will be something of a feat, Draco will get some more help from Theo who guides the blond's wand to touch the final Serpent. His aunt's. 

When the paper snake springs to life and delivers the now expected accusations, no one will be surprised. Still appalled, but not surprised. _That_ doesn't come until the snake tells him he's responsible for her being Crucioed and then, disappearing into his trousers, _slithers into his pants_. The thrice damned thing goes straight for his _bollocks_. 

The room goes quiet at Draco's scream. All teasing stops. He sinks into unconsciousness in Theo's and Harper's hold, and they lower him cautiously to the floor. 

"Merlin's hairy ballsack," Gregory will hiss and then realise what he's said and blush. 

"I've never seen one do that before," Harper will add, highly discomfited, shifting reflexively to cross his legs. "I didn't know they _could_."

"Yeah," Theo will agree quietly. "His aunt isn't your average witch." 

With the dearth of details provided, Theo and the other Slytherins will neither understand _what_ exactly the other four seventh years did to cause all of this, nor what Theo could have done _not_ to deserve a Serpent too, never mind his father's praise. His father's a clever man, he _could_ have calculated on throwing everyone off Theo's scent with false words of praise, but his Serpent to Draco had to have been truthful... 

It will all leave Theo feeling out of sorts and the other students a little unsure how they should see him. He'll try to make himself useful until they come to terms with his role in the affair. Perhaps Professor Snape will provide them with cues... 

Tracey will perform a Rennervate on Draco and Theo will then ask him if he wants them to take him to the Infirmary. "We're taking Vince anyway..."

Draco will feebly shake his head, 'no'. Pomfrey clearly has it in for him, and there's no Pain Relief to be had. Severus can hardly have found time to brew any...

Pansy will offer a Cooling Charm that Draco will find himself desperate enough to accept, and she and Theo will help him to his bed, where she will remain applying Charms while Theo and Harper drag Vince to the Infirmary. In light of the news they've just heard, Harper will be sure to clip a few corners with his unconscious teammate. A few knocks to the head are only likely to improve him. 

When Theo returns to his room, Pansy will be gone, and Draco, Gregory and Blaise will be trying to sleep off the effects of Serpents' stinging bites. Theo will be quite puzzled to find the letter from Draco's mother lying on his pillow. It'll be deciphered, clearly legible for him, and detail the things Professor Snape had reported the evening before on the events of Friday. He's Slytherin enough not to question its presence, and he'll read it. 

When he does, his world will come crashing down.

* * *

  


It's just as well Severus missed the arrival of the Serpents and will be otherwise occupied at the time of their opening, not that he's usually invited to that. The students generally haven't the nerve to approach him. 

Had he seen the Poste Serpentes, Severus would argue that _certain_ Slytherins, the majority of those currently housed at Malfoy Manor, for instance, are _far_ more remiss than they believe. But then he'd amend that. It's hardly _negligence_ when one simply lacks the capacity to understand the _idiocy_ of one's actions. They aren't careless, just _blazingly stupid_. 

Where would he begin?

The Howlers had understandably arrived this morning, because the parties bonded were bonded _Sunday_. They'd soon sent word to their families and had quite predictably received word back by _Tuesday_ morning. Equally predictably, considering the parties involved, that 'word' had come shrieked at a volume that was enough to leave one's ears ringing, and presumably everyone else's within a quarter mile radius, just as surely as if every one of Nell's Bells were rung all together.

Gryffindors are most prone to sending Howlers. Hufflepuffs are a distant second, generally too good natured to do so and less deserving of receiving them than the residents of the other Houses. The Smith family are an obvious exception to the rule on both counts. As such, the response was effectively a given. Predictable though it may have been, Severus will still be sorry to have missed Pomona's Howler; the fact his students' parents never send him any is one of the few clear advantages to his position. 

Ravenclaws are a close third on the screaming mail front, their awareness of the shortcomings of the system - corresponding rather closely to that of the Slytherins' - tending to moderate any flare of temper and their intrinsically sharp tongues. The essential difference in this regard between the eagles and snakes most likely amounts to the Slytherins being in complete agreement: Howlers are naff. 

Most of the students had dutifully reported what transpired Monday. Or tried to. There'd been quite the rush on the school's owls last night. But given the announcement of the bondings wasn't made until yesterday _evening_ , with the exception of individuals in possession of their own well trained owls - _so_ sensibly in times of war, apparently few and far between - no one else had been able to get word sent home in time to have a response this morning. 

_That_ makes it rather _glaringly_ obvious whose families had special knowledge of the events from the weekend. _Whose_ parents are in the inner circle and were present when Severus reported in last night.

Severus would roll his eyes. No, no he wouldn't, he's just not that careless, but he'd be hard pressed _not to_ at that bit of stupidity. Were any of the others even remotely more alert... When he discovers what had happened this morning through a bit of casual Legilimency in a few hours time, Severus will be _more_ than passing annoyed. It will be enough to make him question how he had ever thought the Death Eaters worthy of joining. 

Yet again. 

That's a fairly regular occurrence really. He generally consoles himself by reminding himself, repeatedly, that the Order has regularly demonstrated a nearly equal, and occasionally surpassing, degree of stupidity, and then ignominiously paired it with a lack of pragmatism he finds bleeding shameful. And then he thinks about it further and realises that's really no comfort at all. 

Were one not able to argue that Severus had briefed the boys' families Monday evening, they should also very much have to worry about certain people drawing the connection between the attack Friday and the boys' receipt of several terribly stern looking owls. Not to mention those strange stationery snakes the owls were bearing. 

It's perhaps not surprising, but it serves as confirmation that the Malfoys, Notts, Crabbes and Goyles were 'in the loop', so to speak. It does cast an interesting light on Mrs. Zabini's associations, however. 

Fortunately for them, the Headmaster's obfuscations have muddied the waters plenty, and Ron is absent and Harry's never been particularly observant or good at drawing the right conclusions.  
  


It goes largely unnoticed. 

Poppy, however, as the School Nurse has remarked a correlation through the years between the students who receive those strange bits of animated mail and the individuals who appear in her Infirmary later that day suffering the effects of a hex no one seems able - or perhaps that should be: _willing_ \- to identify. 

She also notices that it's a group of five boys with the Malfoy lout at their centre to receive owls. That number bears more than a little significance in her mind, and she resolves to keep a watchful eye on them in the future. 

Growing nervous at the advent of the Howlers, disquieted by the Slytherin mailings, and still eager to have a word with Minerva on Severus' behalf, or perhaps just to provide some support - moral or otherwise - for Madam Snape, Poppy leaves without finishing her meal. 

It has the added benefit of allowing her to escape from Professor Taylor, and she can always have Polly bring her something.

* * *

  


Far away, on the South Side of Diagon Alley, in a small and rather annoyingly murky office in which papers are stacked precariously on top of one another reaching to _just_ under the ceiling and presumably held in place by magic, Rita Skeeter is fielding her seventh Floo call of the morning with a parent of a student at Hogwarts eager to secure a reward for tipping her off to a story about still more strange goings on at the school. 

The reports are jumbled. Unsubstantiated rumours and innuendo. That doesn't pose a problem in the least; that's her bread and butter. Merlin knows, in the absence of facts, she simply makes her own. It almost makes things easier. She has at least a dozen different promising quotes she can use to underscore virtually _any_ narrative at this point just from those conversations alone. Her Quick-Quotes Quill had seen to that. 

But she's torn between several potential stories, and grabs her Self-Inking Quill and a parchment to make a few more notes. Perhaps she'll do a series...

Should she run with the Headmaster seeming to have coerced students to bond? Dumbledore was always good for a headline or three. Or perhaps the reintroduction of _bonding_ itself to wizarding society? Merlin, she's never personally known _anyone_ to get _bonded_. The last she'd even _heard_ of had been maybe two decades ago... She'll need to check the records. If memory serves, it hadn't ended well. 

Or should she look into the hints at improprieties between staff and students instead? A bit of the old rumpy pumpy. Sex certainly sells.

'Sexcapades!'  
  


Hmm. Maybe not. She'll need to work on that. 

Perhaps this will be enough to get her back to the front rooms. And possibly even knock that tosser Smudgley down a peg or two. Give a man a few bylines, and he becomes unmanageable.  
  


Meanwhile in the antechamber to the substantially better lit office of Barnabas Cuffe, editor-in-chief, someone was pushing their way past his beleaguered secretary Maude and hadn't even _bothered_ to make an appointment. Via neither Floo, owl _nor_ vibe. Really! 

When Barnabas sees who it is and happily throws open his double doors, barking at the poor girl to cancel all appointments for the next hour or two and fetch tea and biscuits, 'Straightaway!', Maude grumbles she's no house elf and swears for the fourth time that morning alone that she really needs to find a new gig.

  



	66. 11 11f Tuesday - Meanwhile in the Infirmary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hermione, Minerva, Ron, Dean, Nurse Wanda Wainscott, Sunny, Severus, mentioned: Poppy, the Devis, the Grangers, the Snapes Sr., Seamus, Filius, Remus, Polly the Infirmary elf_

_Hermione only answers half the question. "You thought I had underestimated his condition. That he had taken advantage of me. I need to show you something."_

_There's something in her tone that has Minerva worried. The fact that their path leads once again in the direction of the Infirmary simply reinforces her concerns. Minutes later the young woman is leading her again to the back room, and Minerva has no doubt whom she'll find there. The only question is what state he is in._

Hermione sails through the Infirmary, the surety of her course carrying Professor McGonagall unerringly in her wake to the back room. The young woman neither hesitates nor looks about, and Minerva simply follows suit. 

With all the comings and goings this morning, the screens have been readjusted around Ron and Dean to give them the suggestion of privacy as they breakfast - Ron's still struggling, not quite valiantly, with his gruel - without shielding them entirely from view, but the witches take no particular notice of them as they sweep past. Dean, however, is not so preoccupied. He turns to Ron, "Sure that was Hermione. I _told_ you it was. There she goes again," he asserts, pointing in the direction the women just disappeared. 

The mention of her fails to improve Ron's mood. He drags his spoon through the gruel again. He could swear compo might be more palatable. He casts a disgruntled look at Dean's now empty bowl. There's _no way_ his hadn't been better.

"Why do you suppose she's here?" Dean muses, immune to Ron's moods after more than six years of sharing a room with the mercurial ginger, and bored enough to be seeking diversion. Infirmaries don't typically offer much along those lines, unless one provides them oneself in the form of medical emergencies. 

Ron's busy _not_ supposing, leaving Dean to have to answer his own question. That doesn't prove much of a hindrance to his conversation. In fact, given Ron's frame of mind, it probably only serves to lighten its tone. "She looks alright," Dean continues, attempting to rule out injury or illness as the cause for her visit. "Pretty good, in fact. What on earth was she wearing?"

Ron gives him a disdainful look, but presumably not for the reason his churlish answer might imply. "Muggle clothes. I thought you of all people would recognise that."

"Well, yeah, but they don't usually look like that..." He waves his hand, tracing a vaguely curvy shape that somehow only makes Ron angrier, gesturing once more after their Housemate. "I mean, she looks fit, right?" Ron glares at him, and Dean feels the sudden need to try that again. "Well, I mean, it's hardly regulation school robes, is it?"

Nurse Wainscott thankfully interrupts when she comes over and enquires if Dean's done with his breakfast. At his, "Yes, thank you," she Banishes his tray to the kitchens with a smile. 

"Was everything satisfactory?" Dean nods, smiling back, and Ron snorts. He's not sure if Dean's a suck up or if his breakfast was really _that much_ better than his. That only earns him a, "Tuck in, Mr. Weasley. Madam Pomfrey said you're to finish your breakfast before you leave." Looking at his mush, he wonders if the Matron has it in for him. Given he isn't having Episkeys applied without Pain Relief, the answer is probably 'no', but he's not likely to recognise that fact. 

"Now, Mr. Thomas, let's get some of this Salve on you. It wouldn't do to have you scarring." Dean sits up for her, lowering his gown, and she begins to apply the gel to his back. 

"Ooo! Merlin! That's cold!" He winces. 

She chuckles and waves her wand over the small pot, "Sorry, I should have thought of that. I'll just warm it up for you." 

"Much better," he quickly agrees. "Thank you." She continues spreading it carefully over the multitude of small wounds across his face, chest and back. 

As she's doing so, the first scream comes from the back room, and all heads turn in that direction. Eminently practised, Wanda flicks her wand towards the rear of the Infirmary and casts a Mediward Silencing Charm, typically used to prevent patients in the throes of particularly painful spells from disturbing the other patients around them. Unfortunately, it's only a temporary measure that ends when the noise levels have returned to normal for a while, but it still does the job nicely as the sounds are indiscernible before any of them have truly even registered them. 

Feeling that might be a suitable segue, or at least the best he'll get, although Ron looks _patently_ unconvinced, Dean takes the opportunity to ask, "Say, Nurse Wainscott, was that Hermione that just went past?" He just won't let it go. Ron may have growled. It could have been a breakfast related noise, however. 

"Yes, it was. I gather she's visiting Professor Snape in the back room," the Nurse reveals without any trace of misgivings. Poppy wouldn't be pleased. 

"Although, I'm not entirely sure why..." she can't help uncertainly adding. Wanda knows Poppy gets on well with the man, but frankly she finds him quite... formidable. Pity he's in their care so often. 

And she really _can't_ conceive of anyone seeking him out of their own volition. 

Dean takes it for a joke and laughs. Ron - thoroughly disgusted, whether with the food or conversation is anyone's guess - throws his spoon down onto his tray. When the Nurse only looks puzzled at their responses, Dean gets the faintest hint of an inkling, but a few incredulous questions later, and he's determined she's actually _serious_. 

Well, now! 

Dean's had a good stay in the Infirmary. He always does. He's a polite boy, impeccably mannered, the solicitous older brother to a number of sisters, and it shows. He's a perfect gentleman with a ready smile. The witches in the Infirmary appreciate these things about him. He makes a frequently trying job that little bit more pleasant. Polly, the Infirmary's house elf, would probably _still_ like him, even if Madam Pomfrey _didn't_ , _that's_ how well he's received. 

It's possible as a result that the treatment he gets is just a little better, kinder, _warmer_ than most others obtain. It's also possible Dean responds to that with even more charm, and _that's_ rewarded with more of the same. They're only human after all. 

Given their rapport, Dean easily swings into a recitation of yesterday's announcement, and cheerily fills the Nurse in on the news from the previous evening. 

Ron's accompanying growl this time is definitely _not_ confined to his still fairly empty stomach. 

Wanda Wainscott, like most others on the Infirmary's staff and the majority of the Professors teaching the extra-curricular courses, like Sarah Sapworthy, Xylomancy, and Barrymore Beckford, Ghoul Studies, isn't one of the Hogwarts employees who resides in the castle. Most of the non-residents live in Hogsmeade and are only present during the hours they're working. 

As such, the Nurse hadn't been at dinner in the Great Hall last night. There are few meals truly good enough to entice most non-residents to subject themselves to the hordes of students longer than need be. Having missed the staff meeting and isolated as Wanda is in the Infirmary, she had no idea _whatsoever_ about the bondings, and now it's _her_ turn to think the boy is having her on. 

Somewhat ironically, it's Mr. Weasley's sullenness that finally goes a ways to convincing her. It seems altogether the wrong reaction were this simply a lark. And still it strikes her as so thoroughly... unbelievable. She avails herself of the chair beside Mr. Thomas' bed, plunks down onto it rather heavily for her lightness of frame, and he garnishes his anecdote by supplying a colourful recounting of the students' reactions to the news. 

Goodness.

Poppy naturally hadn't had a chance to tell her about Mr. Devi's _tail_ yet either. 

Well.

Dean's rewarded for his forthcomingness when Wanda then provides a little information of her own, and soon they're merrily swapping gossip. She hasn't got much, but what she has she shares all too readily.  
  


There's a blackboard in Poppy's office that each of the nurses checks at the beginning of shift. It's Charmed to list all individuals currently being treated in the Infirmary, when they were admitted, in what condition and why, as well as their present status. That's perhaps not as invulnerable to student pranking as might be advisable, as the Weasley twins had demonstrated quite clearly when they managed to have it report half the Gryffindor Quidditch team as deceased a few years ago. 

Poppy had nearly had a coronary of her own, and the boys had spent some quality time with Argus once again. As his office had been the source of useful artefacts over the years, they didn't half mind, and they were both exceedingly accustomed to detentions under his supervision anyway. 

Far more robust against tampering, thankfully, the blackboard also summarises what the patients are being treated for, what's been done for them in broad strokes on this particular visit, and what the scheduled treatment is for that day. It aids in keeping track of which Potions need administering when, which is an enormous help. Doubtlessly it's saved the Infirmary staff a lot of time; it's conceivably also saved _lives_. 

Filius had created the Charm for them over two decades ago after a mistake in the dosage of potions administered to Severus, of all people - he _really_ has some of the worst luck, rather late in his fourth year had had severe consequences. Inexplicably, the dosage recorded manually on the blackboard they were using at the time had been mysteriously altered and was off _by an order of magnitude_ , and the student nurse administering the Potions unfortunately hadn't questioned why she was giving the patient _twenty_ phials instead of _two_. 

There it was, white on black. She had simply done as it said. No one could particularly fault her, well, _much_ , not that that provided any consolation for her. She quit the profession soon after, completely traumatised by the experience. 

Careful investigation of the staff proved none of them had changed the number, and yet as the portraits could attest, no one had been seen entering the office either. Everyone agreed, half jokingly and _very_ uneasily, whoever did it would have had to have been _invisible_. 

What were the chances of _that_?  
  


Only Severus' unusual habit of carrying a Bezoar about with him at all times had very narrowly averted tragedy, and _still_ it had taken him weeks to recover from the mishap. 

Mistakenly the incident is used in medical teaching circles to illustrate an incidence of 'the cure being worse than the disease'. That makes Severus pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration as it misses the point _entirely_. He can never emphasise the importance of units enough. As a Potions Master, they're very near and dear to his heart. 

Much like Bezoars. 

In an ultimately successful effort to ensure such a mistake never happened again, Filius had spent the rest of the spring term, the entire summer and a good portion of the following autumn developing the Charm to automate the process. 

He finally prevailed with a truly brilliant series of modifications to the Homonculous Charm, fortunately an obscure but nevertheless quite lovely bit of magic that allows one to track the movements of everyone within a mapped area. It was an extremely creative application of the Charm that shifted the focus from physical _location_ to physical _condition_ and the rest was history, as they say. It wasn't long before Filius was able to sell his Charm on to St. Mungo's and a few other clinics as well, securing himself a tidy nest egg for his eventual retirement. 

Remus Lupin, a fifth year by the time of the Charm's completion and one of the Gryffindor Prefects, had assisted the Charms Master invaluably in his research. As he claimed when he volunteered, he was exceptionally good at... fetching any materials required. 

It's... _possible_ some of the things Remus learned in the process proved... _useful_ when the Marauder's Map was created not long thereafter. Remus was always... fond of learning.  
  


There are indeed a few drawbacks to the current automagic system, but the advantages far outweigh them. One of the disadvantages would clearly have to be that their overreliance on the board as a means of relaying important information has slowly but surely led to a worsened communication in the Infirmary over the years. Staff no longer brief each other anywhere near as thoroughly as they used to, sometimes not even at all. Whatever for if everything important is clearly recorded? 

The problems inherent in that attitude have begun to manifest in things as simple and wide reaching as Poppy not telling her Nurse about the bondings at school over the weekend. 

Another drawback would have to be a slight imperfection in the documentation of the _reasons_ for the injuries. It's unclear, although probably wouldn't be were people more honest with one another, if there's a semi-sentience behind it or if it's purely a reflection of the thoughts of the staff and others present at the time the entry is made, but the board has been known to show an uncanny degree of perception as to the causes of the various maladies. 

And possibly a questionable sense of humour. 

For example just in the past day, it listed the cause of Malfoy's injuries, in addition to the obvious 'Seven-story Fall', as 'Karma'. To the results of Seamus, Dean and Ron's little fracas it tacked on 'Stupidity' as a suffix. And quite astutely to the reasons for Crabbe's allergic reaction it added 'Revenge'. 

It's not too significant an aberration. For the most part, it's considered unreliable and irrelevant enough as to be largely ignored. And as imperfections to Charms go, it's fairly inconsequential considering few other than the Infirmary staff ever see the entries on that board and much of it would be considered privileged information anyway. It becomes a little more problematic when staff members are as taken with gossiping as Wanda is, and presumably even more so when the board rather creatively, but not quite inaccurately, lists the reason for Severus' stay as 'Marriage Related Injuries'. 

Unfortunately when Wanda seeks to provide Mr. Thomas with a little tit for tat, _that's_ all the information she can provide as to why the Professor was brought in during the past night. When she had first seen the board, she'd been left trying, and failing, _utterly_ , to picture an attack by a jealous husband and the completely improbable witch between them. Having heard Mr. Thomas' story, it now makes a little more sense. 

Albeit not much. 

Quite naturally, of course, 'Marriage Related Injuries' gets _thoroughly_ misunderstood, certainly no later than the end of second period when Seamus, who will soon stop by to visit Dean and check on his progress before Transfigurations class and winds up hearing the latest on dit, happens to mention it to some Ravenclaws. By lunch, _so_ surprisingly, word seems to have spread all through the castle. 

Ron's waxing desire to hex the initial parties involved fuels a renewed attempt on his breakfast. With any luck, he may still make it out of there in time to get some real food from the Great Hall.

* * *

  


Minerva follows Madam Snape into the little room at the Infirmary's rear to discover Severus - surely only _half_ naked, but that's clearly the half on display - once again in the single bed. He appears to be unconscious, at least, she sincerely _hopes_ it's only that. Merlin, he'd only just left the place Sunday... 

She can't help noticing how... _at ease_ the young woman seems both with his dishabille and the very visible injuries to his person. Minerva remembers how _she'd_ recoiled at the sight Sunday; Madam Snape by contrast seems unfazed. 

Admittedly Hermione's had some time to grow accustomed to his scars. Mostly she just sees _him_ , but when she does take notice of the scars, _she_ finds the _suffering_ they represent frightening, not the scars themselves. And she sports a rather remarkable one herself, after all. 

Truthfully, it's not nearly as noticeable as she thinks, but that's often the way of these things. It certainly can't hold a candle to _his_ , but as he'll eventually tell her: it isn't a competition. 

The young woman turns to Minerva and by way of explanation informs her, "He had to report our bonding to You-Know-Who yesterday. This is how they thanked him for that little courtesy. They tortured and half killed him for it, and he barely made it back alive. 

"I'm not being overly dramatic, Professor," Hermione hastens to assure her Transfigurations Professor, "but I understand if you feel you can't simply take my word for it. That's fair enough. But if you _can't_ believe what I'm saying, please, _please_ ask Madam Pomfrey..." 

There's something in her tone that lets Minerva know there's already been too much of that - not taking her at her word. The poor woman. The Head of Gryffindor deeply regrets challenging their motives for the bonding Sunday, for all the good it does now. 

"That won't be necessary, Madam Snape. I'm more than prepared to believe he's here for very good reason. I'm just sorry that's the case."

"He was in such terrible shape when I found him last night, lying unconscious in the snow in front of the gates..." Hermione tells her, clearly very affected by the ordeal. 

"What were you doing _outside_ the gates at _night_?" Minerva asks sharply, more than a little alarmed. The young woman had only just been attacked herself a matter of days ago. Leaving Severus half dead before the gates and taking advantage of their bond and Vows sounds like a brilliant and _terrifying_ plan to lure her back into their clutches, if - as Severus and Albus seem to think - 'their' ability to reach her on the school grounds has truly been properly curtailed.

"Trying to make sure he didn't _die_ , Professor. I gather it was very close initially. Madam Pomfrey had her hands full trying to save him." Hermione sounds a little glib. It's her preferred approach to abject terror, or anything else too upsetting. _That_ list has grown quite long in the past couple of days. 

Minerva is about explain that that was _incredibly_ reckless - these children seem to survive almost entirely due to _luck_ alone - and then detail how she _should_ have handled the situation when an owl soars into the little room, its purpose abundantly clear once she spots the all too familiar red envelope in his clutches. 

Hermione's calm is a fragile thing. She'd finally gotten some decent rest and she has a Calming Draught in her system. It helps. Mostly, though, it had helped convince her she was fine, which holds for about as long as it takes for her calm to be threatened even ever so slightly. That's amply proven when she flinches merely at the sight of the Howler. It's too much like fourth year and the wake of Skeeter's poison pen articles during the Tri-Wiz for comfort just now. 

Minerva watches as contradictory impulses seem to overcome the young woman to shrink together in retreat and square her shoulders, firming her resolve, all at once. It's only the fleetest of moments, and then the little witch swiftly moves to place herself between Severus and the perceived threat, as though it could make a difference, but she's acting on impulse, just as she had done Sunday night when that threat had been Minerva herself. _That_ fact makes Minerva more than a little rueful. But seeing the woman face her discomfort to try to protect Severus makes both her and the Disillusioned house elf still standing guard in the corner smile to themselves. 

Thinking to spare the young woman some distress and feeling she owes it to her, Minerva reaches for the envelop only to have it suddenly burst open at her touch and begin screaming. 

Quite unexpectedly, though, it's screaming at _her_. 

A voice Minerva soon recognises as Mrs. Devi's unleashes a chorus of **" _How could you allow this to happen_?"** punctuated by the occasional **" _What were you thinking_?"**

Minerva finds herself without adequate answers for either, other than Albus had blindsided her, and frankly she'd asked him much the same Sunday evening. In fact, rather more often than Mrs. Devi does in her Howler. It's nothing she couldn't have predicted, should have _expected_ actually, and it's soon run its course. Unpleasant, to be sure, but unfortunately all in a day's work as the Head of Gryffindor. 

Madam Snape, struggling somewhat not to let her relief show _too_ greatly, meanwhile busies herself in the room, politely pretending her Head of House _isn't_ receiving quite the bollocking in her presence, and applying what appears to be a Diagnostic Charm to Severus. Minerva can't see any results, but she believes she's seen the wandstroke before, and Madam Snape's expression seems to reflect that she's received good news. _Very_ good news. 

It's soon followed by a Freshening Charms to Severus' bedclothes and apparently a Refreshing Charm to the man himself. The quiet confidence with which the witch applies the Charms, the lack of apprehension she has about applying them to _him_ , has Minerva wondering how much practice she's had in the past few days. It all seems so... routine. Minerva certainly prefers focusing on that to the Howler. 

When Mrs. Devi's rant has run out of steam and the Howler bursts into flames and turns to ash, Minerva breathes a sigh of relief, both that she wasn't in the Great Hall to receive it, that's never pleasant, and that she needn't worry about receiving one from Miss Kilkenny's... Madam Devi's parents. A definite advantage to the Muggle-born students if ever there were one. It crosses her mind briefly to wonder if she'll receive another when Mrs. Devi hears about Dhanesh's tail... How _lovely_. She can hardly wait. 

Minerva turns to her pupil and apologises. "I'm sorry you had to hear that. I probably should have silenced it earlier, but I find it more constructive to be able to refer to the actual complaints made when corresponding with parents later." 

Hermione gives her a wry grin from where she stands by Professor Snape's side, and in a bit of dark humour quips, "Well, on the bright side, at least you don't have to worry about getting one from _my_ parents." 

Minerva pales, a little abashed at that, she quite frankly hadn't thought of Madam Snape's parents _at all_ at that moment. She thinks ruefully about what Severus had told her about them. They've really let this young woman down. _Repeatedly_. 

Simultaneously, Hermione has a very strange turn as it dawns on her to wonder about the _Professor's_ parents... Well, not his mum, obviously, but his... father... Not that he, as a Muggle, could have sent a Howler either apparently... She realises that she doesn't even know if the man, horrid though he may have been, but she doesn't know if he's still _alive_... She'd simply never _enquired_. 

When the Professor had asked her if her parents should be present for their bonding, she hadn't given a single thought to _his_. In retrospect, it's just as well she _hadn't_ asked about them, but still... Goodness, he could have as many siblings as a Weasley... Although _that_ seems unlikely... Or aunts and uncles and cousins galore... She seems to sometimes forget, whatever else he is, he's a person like anyone else, which leaves her feeling somewhat guilty. 

At the thought, she finds herself absently, gently brushing that stubborn strand of hair out of his face, as if in penance. To atone for her oversight...  
  


_Finally_. 

Sunny could cheer. He may have giggled. Fortunately the Silencing Charm around him ensures no one else will ever know.  
  


And then Hermione has a brief moment of something very like vertigo, thankfully much dampened by the Calming Draught, when she worries, somewhat acutely considering the Draught, about having a person like the one Madam Pomfrey had described as a _father-in-law_. Merlin, what he'd _done_ to Mrs. Snape... But it's really only the briefest of moments before she relaxes, trusting that the Professor would _never_ expose her to someone like that, even if the man were still alive. She feels it, deep down in her bones, with a conviction she couldn't explain if she had to. She knows, _absolutely_ , she's _safe_ with her bondmate. In that regard, she trusts him completely. In most regards, actually, when she thinks about it...

And again she's stroking that strand of hair from his face. 

It's odd. She's never noticed it hanging in his face in class before. Certainly never when he brews, he wouldn't stand for it... And yet as he lies there sleeping, largely _immobile_ , it seems to have taken on a life of its own. She wonders if there's a draught by his bed... She extends a hand towards him to test for it. 

As Minerva watches her charge fussing surprisingly tenderly over Severus, it occurs to her to wonder if in the aftermath of the man's apparently rather dramatic rescue the young woman isn't half smitten. And then she finds herself pondering if in the face of their _bonding_ , that would be such a bad thing... Discounting Severus' misanthropic nature, of course. Always assuming one can...  
  


Both women are yanked from their thoughts by the arrival of another owl. Hermione briefly considers if that's even remotely hygienic, owls flying to and fro in an Infirmary, but presumably there are Charms for that, too. Maybe she'll ask Madam Pomfrey about it later... And suddenly she recognises the owl. 

It's _Pigwidgeon_. 

There are a few seconds of denial when Hermione recalls Ron is in the main room - she'd only just dragged Professor McGonagall past him, now that she thinks about it - and _surely_ Pig is here for _him_ , when she spots the telltale red envelope in his talons. Her heart sinks as Professor McGonagall again reaches for a letter, "Please, allow me, Madam Snape..." And as she touches the flap, it bursts open and Molly Weasley's voice fills the little room.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the category too cute for my own good... 'Compo' is a traditional material used to make many of those fancy decorations you may associate with antique picture frames. It's made predominantly out of glue from boiled animal hides (yup. and: ick), chalk, rosin and linseed oil. (for example: www.nps.gov/tps/how-to-preserve/briefs/34-composition-ornament.htm) (A similar technique from the Italian Renaissance was called 'pastiglia', if you're more familiar with that.) Compo is put in moulds and that's how all those curlicues are made. It's far easier (and hence cheaper) than carving the same ornamentations out of wood would be. I mention this because _my_ dictionary doesn't feel anyone needs to know this :-( (A pox on artificially restrictive dictionaries. A pox, I say!), and I figured some of you might not be better off than I am in that regard. 
> 
> It's _also_ the word for British military rations. Sort of like American K-rations or MRE's, if that helps.
> 
> While I wouldn't expect most of the characters to know the second definition, given the prevalence of portraits at Hogwarts, I assume there's a thriving frame making business in their society.


	67. 11 11g Tuesday - You Can Scream, You Can Flail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hermione, Minerva, Severus, Sunny, mentioned: the Grangers, Molly and Ron_

_**"SEVERUS SNAPE! WHAT DID YOU THINK YOU WERE DOING?"** _

The not so dulcet tones of Molly Weasley are unmistakable. Hermione just goggles at Professor McGonagall in disbelief. 

Minerva, to her credit, realises this probably seems very much like what she herself had done only a day and a half ago, and wisely doesn't put on too much of an indignant air. She _does_ find the Howler exceedingly embarrassing, though, no question, both for Molly and whichever of her children had... briefed her, and it does succeed in making Minerva still _more_ ashamed of her own recent behaviour. 

Hermione just shakes her head in frustration as she draws her wand. Still quite taken aback, however, she doesn't raise it yet. This is the second time in days Professor Snape's been lying there while she stood beside him as some irate harridan harped on at them, screaming accusations at him. 

Fine, maybe 'harridan' is a bit harsh, her eyes dart quickly to Professor McGonagall, and _technically_ there haven't really been any accusations as yet, but she feels certain they're coming. 

She's probably wrong about the former and absolutely correct about the latter. 

She turns to her Head of House and without hesitation lumps her in with all the others who seem to be heaping abuse on them lately. In light of the woman's behaviour Sunday, it may even be justified. "You people have completely lost the plot," Hermione accuses without a shred of doubt. 

It's Minerva's turn to shake her head in reply, but she has no chance to voice her apology. The Howler naturally proceeds with no regard for the women or their conversation, shrieking at Severus' unconscious form for all it's worth. His sleep is largely unaffected. Small favours, as he'd see it. Bellatrix had wandered into his nightmares again. Compared to her, there's no contest. Molly is a pleasant change of pace, even when yelling. 

Whether Minerva can be heard or not over the screaming Howler is secondary. She has no intention of being slow to act this time. She draws her wand and begins to take aim at the screeching parchment. 

_**"HERMIONE'S CLEARLY BEEN HOODWINKED!"** _

At the mention of her name, Hermione's free hand half automatically reaches out to stay Professor McGonagall's wand, and she stands listening, transfixed. It's a common enough response, but generally not beneficial. Her first instinct was undoubtably healthier. Professor McGonagall's as well. 

It's stupid, really. There was no way she _wouldn't_ have been mentioned. She's the _reason_ for this after all. She's half relieved the Professor isn't awake to hear this, it would just be one more inconvenience she'd caused him, and then she immediately feels guilty for thinking there's _anything_ good about his present state. And _then_ she hastens to remind herself what the Discerno had shown. 

He's fine. He's going to be _just_ fine. All he needs is some rest, that's all.

If Madam Pomfrey hadn't given him that Potion, with all this racket, he'd almost certainly be awake _right now_. It's better this way. 

It dawns on her that her feelings are all over the place, and she shouldn't like to picture the state she'd be in without the Potion _she'd_ taken. And then she thinks she really should have done as the Professor said and taken the Draught of Peace instead, and feels guilty all over again. 

She's a mess. 

_**"SHE DOESN'T KNOW ANY BETTER, BUT YOU!! YOU!!!"** _

Absently she pockets her wand as she mulls that over. 

She's trying to puzzle out why it seems so much worse now than it was yesterday morning, but the volume of the Howler makes it hard to think. She can't concentrate. Of course, the very fact she's being _Howled at_ might just have something to do with her unease. Undoubtedly some of it's the knowledge she can expect to see Malfoy back in classes today, and that _he_ knows what happened Friday. More or less, anyway. He knows _enough_.

But there are some things she isn't taking into account. 

For example because she's trying her utmost to ignore the horrors the bond exposed her to last night. On top of what she'd been through Friday, she's simply unprepared to deal with them at the moment, which is fair enough, and is desperately trying to suppress them as best she can. The results are inconsistent, but she just isn't capable of keeping the abuse the Professor had suffered for their bonding in the forefront of her mind for long without going spare. She's having a lot of difficulty handling the guilt response even fleeting thoughts of it seem to trigger. 

One dose of Calming just isn't enough. 

Unfortunately, she also seems to have decided in light of the severity of _his_ treatment, that hers pales to nothingness beside it, and she has no right whatsoever to complain. To even feel particularly mistreated. _Obviously_ she _wasn't_. And certainly none to feel _sorry_ for herself. _Nothing happened_ , after all. Just some torn clothing. It's not like she could _feel_ that. And, Merlin, that clothing has even been replaced. 

Which was _clearly_ what mattered. 

Her hand goes to phial hanging at her neck. 

She's absolutely _fine_. There wasn't a mark on her. Well, not after her lip was healed anyway. And that could hardly count measured against _his_ wounds. No, she needs perspective, and looking at the proof of the extensive harm _he's_ obviously survived, she has no right to... well, to _anything_ really. 

Here, too, he'll eventually explain that _it isn't a competition_, that _his_ pain in no way negates _hers_ , and _fear_ is a very _real_ thing. But she hasn't heard those words yet or even begun to suspect the truth of the concept behind them. And it's incredibly difficult to cut oneself some slack when one is extremely busy denying there's any call for it in the least. 

And finally she completely forgets to consider all the aggravation she'd had with her friends since this time yesterday, evidently culminating in this Howler. She _does_ think dark thoughts about Ron for _that_ , though. Thank you, ever so. _Tosser_. She also overlooks the fact she's no longer banking on her... friends' support; it's just yet another thing she's trying to ignore. And she doesn't spare a thought for all the aggravation she can undoubtedly look forward to with her other classmates today. They're all things she _feels_ but isn't consciously aware of just now. That will come quite abruptly later.  
  


Well. As insulting statements go, Ron's still in the lead. And who even says 'hoodwinked' anymore? The turn of the century Flooed and would like its vocabulary back. _Cheers_. 

_**"WHAT KIND OF DEPRAVED WIZARD WOULD DO SUCH A THING?"** _

Now _that_ makes her mad. Her brow furrows and she clutches the phial more fiercely.

"He doesn't deserve this," Hermione insists, trying to convince Professor McGonagall as there's no one else there for her to try to sway. 

"No, no of course not..." It's Minerva's turn to hurry to reassure _her_.

 _ **"FOOLISH CHILD, PROBABLY THINKS SHE'S FOLLOWING HER HEART."**_ Hermione just stares at Professor McGonagall blankly. All Minerva can do is shake her head some more, raise her hands a little helplessly and give a slight shrug. She has no idea _what_ gave the woman that idea. 

And _foolish_? Well. Hermione's been called _that_ before. As recently as _yesterday_ even. With respect to the bonding, in fact. Like mother, like daughter, she supposes. Perhaps she'll give the Weasley family a thesaurus for Christmas. She rather doubts they own one. 

_**"HOW COULD YOU TAKE ADVANTAGE OF HER LIKE THAT?"**_ Hermione's begun blushing, although she couldn't say why. Or shouldn't like to try. Minerva mercifully takes the red in her cheeks for anger. 

_**"JUST BECAUSE THOSE OVERLY PERMISSIVE, ABSENTEE PARENTS OF HERS WOULDN'T SEND YOU A HOWLER DOESN'T MEAN YOU..."** _

And at _that_ all the colour leaves her face. Hermione goes deathly pale at the mention of her parents, but the sentence never finishes as Minerva now has her wand raised again and reduces the Howler to ash. 

Just as well. When the Howler Molly sent Hermione eventually gets the chance to vent its spleen, and does it ever, it will become clear that Molly had feared any of a number of perfectly scandalous rumours were true, and apparently felt the need to address each and every one of those rumours. Thoroughly. Making matters worse, one could safely assume the Howler she sent to Severus was far less... restrained than Hermione's version was. It was best no one heard the rest of his. How Molly had thought airing _that_ in the Great Hall would _help_ the young woman is another matter entirely. 

The simple answer is she never posed that question. 

"I'm very sorry, Madam Snape. I should have done that sooner." 

Hermione just stands there blinking. The blinks come more rapidly and soon Minerva can see the tears forming in her eyes. Severus had told her how the young woman had sent her parents away for their own safety, that they're presently not in touch - and not _able_ to be. How she's all alone now, because she felt she had no other choice. Minerva can imagine what might be going through her mind just now. 

No, she probably can't. 

But she _had_ left Muggles behind in her youth, including someone she loved very much, enough so to have once been _engaged_ to him, and she _does_ have a hint of an idea what it could mean for the young witch. Minerva feels for her greatly. In the last war, precisely _that Muggle_ Minerva had loved had been killed by Death Eaters, slaughtered along with his entire family. Intellectually, she can only approve of the measures the Grangers had taken, but emotionally she knows that doesn't make the sacrifice easier. 

Hermione's knees fold and she sinks to the edge of the bed, sitting there staring into space, focusing ferociously on nothing and trying not to cry. 

Well, her parents are most certainly 'absent' now... 

A single Calming Draught is no match for the trials of the last several days, _or_ the months before. It all feels like it's crashing down on her, and she's slipping into a state of shock. She seems completely unaware of the barechested man lying motionless behind her. Minerva says a silent prayer that he really is only sleeping, but she doesn't dare ask about him just now. 

"Madam Snape?" She prompts gently, but Hermione doesn't seem to hear. "Miss Granger?" Nothing. "Hermione?" She tries, but still no response until she repeats it as she places her hand on the young woman's shoulder.

 _That_ gets a response. Unfortunately the reaction that comes then just leaves Minerva feeling worse. 

The young witch was clearly spooked, and she half leaps out of her skin. Unexpected touch would seem to be a problem. Minerva could hex herself, it was hardly surprising given what she'd gone through. The images Severus had shared with her of Madam Snape bound to her chair in the Transfigurations classroom come flooding back to mind, and the Gryffindor Head just stands there sinking into further self-recriminations. Minerva feels like she should have known better. 

It's not exactly a fair assessment, however, as Hermione had demonstrated no difficulty touching Severus in her presence. But Hermione had either seen the touch coming or initiated it herself, and the bond goes a _long_ way to reassuring her. 

Minerva naturally withdraws her hand immediately, but the young woman turns to face her, finally meeting her eyes. The tears in them are apparent, and Minerva is compelled to slowly reach towards her again, careful to keep her hand visible as she does this time, never dropping her gaze, watching for any signs of protest as she moves. When none come, she finally clasps her shoulder gently and squeezes softly, hoping to convey her support. 

It helps. 

Somehow Hermione feels like it seems to ground her. It's weird and contradictory that such a simple thing can be so beneficial and so detrimental all at once. She can't make any sense of it, but she welcomes the comfort it provides. 

Fear had replaced her sadness, and as the fear recedes, she becomes... 

She becomes _angry_. 

It's not long before she can hear the blood rushing in her ears. She knuckles away what remains of the tears. She's growing livid over the mention of her parents, at the casual dig at them. She meets Professor McGonagall's gaze again. "She has _no business_ talking about my parents," she finally bites out, willing her to understand, her fury all too readily apparent. 

"She probably only meant because they _couldn't_ send a Howler themselves..." Minerva tries consolingly, convincing neither of them. Hermione scoffs softly and wonders when she got so cynical. 

But it wasn't a bad impulse on Minerva's part. It would definitely make matters worse to lose friends and moral support for something as stupid as this. She's known Molly for decades. This was a purely emotional response, she's sure of it. It hadn't been well reasoned, and it's probably not even a deliberate attempt to _hurt_ the couple. 

For all the good that distinction does given such thoroughly deleterious carelessness. 

On the other hand, there's something fundamentally _wrong_ about expecting the _victim_ of a terrifying attack to have to be the one to exercise prudence, demonstrate good judgment, maintain a level-head and then turn the other cheek, as it were. Particularly in the face of what is effectively just another attack. Asking for her _understanding_ really is an ask too far. 

"She didn't say 'couldn't'. She said 'wouldn't'. I doubt that was an oversight," Hermione sounds calmer now, but more resolute. Frankly, Minerva's inclined to agree, but it seems disadvantageous to say so. She doesn't want to pour oil on the flames. And yet coupled with the adjective 'absentee', what else is she to think? 

_That_ descriptor has Hermione plenty agitated as is.

She'd enjoyed visits at the Weasleys' often over the years. Greatly. But to welcome her to stay with them to her face, and behind her back claim parental _neglect_... It's rather a lot to swallow. Particularly _now_. 

As an only child, she'd been more than happy to spend time with her friends in the summers and holidays. She'd never had _many_ friends at home and none that lived immediately close by. Her neighbourhood skewed a bit older, their children were mostly grown and moved on. Once she went away to school, the friends she had at home... simply went on with their lives and replaced her. 

She couldn't blame them, she'd done the same. 

And as she couldn't share significant parts of her life or her experiences with them... It had always felt good to be back with people from Hogwarts who knew her _better_. And the bigger a role the war began to play in her life, the more difficult it became to bridge the divide with Muggles who would never be able to remotely understand her. 

Then, too, it had been especially lovely, when invited to the Weasleys', to be able to gain insights into how witches and wizards _lived_. These were the things that she wasn't learning at school and were much harder to glean from textbooks. A great deal was simply undocumented, its knowledge taken for granted, and just a day observing in a magical home was able to teach her so much. And then to have it _thrown in her face_... 

Her parents lost to her as they are now, she is _so_ thankful that she spent last Christmas with them. The previous _four_ she'd abandoned her family and spent the hols with her friends. From the age of thirteen on... Goodness, that was young. All those potentially special moments she and her parents had never shared together, memories they never made. 

With a huff of some exceptionally dark humour it crosses her thoughts that those were just a few more memories she hadn't had to _take_ from them. 

Her parents hadn't _wanted_ her to go. They'd _never_ wanted her gone. They simply gave her the freedoms she needed, she had _wanted_ , to learn. To _live_ on _her_ terms. And here they are being accused of _neglect_. Had that been shouted in front of all assembled in the Great Hall, she couldn't be held accountable for her response. 

Her rage at Ron for instigating this just glows hotter at the thought. 

"I'm very sorry that you had to hear that," Minerva tries to express her support. 

"No," Hermione disagrees, having decided she's entitled to her outrage, " _I'm not_. I'm sorry that's what she _thinks_. I'm sorry that's her idea of an acceptable thing to _shout_ at us in _public_ , because that's _precisely_ what would have happened had he not been seriously injured again last night," her hand reaches back to seek out _his_ where it's lying across his ribs. Hermione takes it into her lap and interlaces their fingers, to reassure herself he's _fine_ , clinging to him and trying to calm herself further.

" _She_ had no way of knowing we'd be _here_ instead of the Great Hall." The sound of that 'she' isn't promising. It's much like Severus' 'boys', in fact. Hermione's learning. "I'm sorry she believes she's _justified_ in treating us that way or that she thinks it was _appropriate_. That she would try to _humiliate_ us. But I'm _not_ sorry I _heard_ it. 

"It's _good_ to know where you stand."

The expression on the young woman's face has something hard about its set, and Minerva fears this may have been a misstep too far for Molly. She suspects, and is correct, that had Molly not effectively insulted the Grangers, Madam Snape could have brushed all of those objections of hers off with a little time; that the key lay entirely in that slight. And that it will take _a lot_ to make up for it, if it's at all possible. 

Her years as a Head of House have made her well aware of something else: it will undoubtably be harder to fix if the parties involved don't address the actual issue. As Madam Snape hadn't even _mentioned_ it just now, she's only making it more difficult. Not that this is _her_ mess to sort, not at all, not by any means, but it will be much harder to make this right if no one knows _why_ she's so upset. 

She can't help thinking Molly's certainly made a hash of things. 

"I can understand your feelings on the matter, but I _am_ sorry it happened, nevertheless. Perhaps you can find it within yourself to try not to be too quick to judge..." Minerva doesn't sound particularly convinced about that last bit, but she hopes that leaves it open whether she means judging Molly or whichever of her misguided children had precipitated the Howler. 

Hermione doesn't bother dignifying the suggestion with a response beyond her expression. But that speaks loudly enough. 

The remarkably cynical look on Madam Snape's face would indicate that she's silently adding 'like Mrs. Weasley?' to that sentence. Minerva can understand _that_ , too. She sighs as she massages her temple. 

It's clear the young woman is a bundle of nerves, quite understandably. Albus seems to have made a bad situation worse at every turn the way he's handled this, and Minerva is determined to help her if she can. Fully aware that _her_ classroom must be the source for still _more_ anxiety, she decides to make the younger witch an offer. 

"I can also imagine that it's been a number of very trying days for you. Would it help any were I to excuse you from my class today?" 

Hermione blinks in surprise. When Katie Bell had nearly been _killed_ by a cursed necklace last year, Professor McGonagall had _still_ given her homework the day after she was released from St. Mungo's. Really, short of death or current hospitalisation, there's _no excuse_ for missing her class. This is... remarkable. And _incredibly_ considerate. 

"That's very kind of you. _Thank you_ , Professor. I appreciate it. But I really can't afford to skip my classes, not this close to N.E.W.T.s. It's bad enough I'm no longer taking Potions..."

"Albus mentioned something about that at the staff meeting yesterday, but I'm afraid I don't quite follow. I thought that was _voluntary_. If you _wanted_ to continue with the course, why _aren't_ you taking Potions anymore?"

"He insisted I drop the course. It was his requirement for the bonding," Hermione explains simply, nodding towards the man behind her and squeezing his hand. 

She's calming down some, her thoughts no longer exclusively on the Howler, assorted Weasleys, and her parents. As she calms, she becomes more aware of her surroundings. When she'd startled, she'd slid forward and now she feels like she's perched on the edge of the mattress, about to tumble off at any moment. To correct that, she shifts back a little further onto the bed. 

But that movement just brings the next surprise. 

Apparently her shirt had pulled free of her jeans when she'd leapt at Professor McGonagall's touch, exposing a small strip of skin along her back. All perfectly normal, nothing too strange about that. It really wasn't much of her back exposed, possibly an inch, or maybe two tops, and she hadn't even noticed. It was all thoroughly inconsequential. But as she slides back onto the bed, she's completely shocked when she suddenly feels the warmth of Professor Snape's exposed skin press against hers as her back collides with his bare torso. 

In contrast to her response only a moment ago, she doesn't leap away at the contact; she _freezes_. For a few seconds she goes rigid before relaxing into the touch, and then without thinking, she slides closer to him yet. 

It's... _conceivable_ that her shirt had pulled free as she thinks. But it's far more _likely_ the Disillusioned house elf in the corner had something to do with it. Hermione will never be the wiser.

The sensation of... safety, security that overcomes her has her nestling in still further. It's absurd, as the man is unconscious. _Insensate_ , for goodness' sake. She doesn't understand in the least how he represents 'safety', she only knows that he _does_. She feels completely at peace there. 

She gives a slight wriggle she doesn't even register to situate herself. It doesn't escape Minerva, who can't help giving her a slightly thoughtful look. It's just as well Severus is sound asleep for this as it would have had him darting from the bed. Or failing the ability to do that just now, which is a strong possibility, he might have even Levicorpused the witch. 

He's been known to overreact on occasion. 

Asleep as he is, however, he instead reflexively begins to turn slightly towards her warmth instead and the hand in her lap moves to wrap around her left hip and pull her closer. That's met by something best described as a warm chill that shoots up her spine, and she leans in even more. 

Sunny, suffice it to say, is suitably satisfied.  
  


"But whatever _for_? That was _completely_ unnecessary." Minerva's tone sounds like she thinks Severus was just being difficult again, but a look at him in his present state soon has her modulating that. He's entitled. 

Still. 

She can't see the _sense_ in his actions, and she can't quite help saying as much. And to be fair, she knows just how important her academic achievements are to the young witch before her, and this is nothing that couldn't be remedied. Surely Madam Snape could easily rejoin the class were Severus willing, and Minerva is more than prepared to badger him until he permits it, if the young woman so desires. She's her Head of House, after all, and especially _now_ , acting in loco parentis. Someone needs to look out for her interests. 

"There are safeguards in place," she explains, thinking Madam Snape may be unaware. "It shouldn't have presented a problem... Merlin, enough staff have taught family members over the years. I've been Head of House _and_ teacher to all four of my nephews. If anything, it should have ensured..." 

She trails off, and Hermione finds herself smirking. She's absolutely certain, and correct, that Professor McGonagall had the same thought Hermione had on the matter: that those safeguards should have guaranteed fairer point deductions and possibly even point _gains_ than she had previously... enjoyed in his class. That if anything, it would have been an _improvement_. 

"You shouldn't have to quit the course if you don't wish to," Minerva tries to encourage her. "I'll be happy to speak to him for you about it, if you wish?"

Frankly, it's tempting. Very. But looking at his hand still in hers, she's already feeling like she isn't doing a particularly good job of accepting his terms, and she _had_ agreed to them. And it's not like she can't sort of see his point. At least on _this_ issue... 

"I _really_ appreciate the offer, Professor, but it won't be necessary. We've made arrangements with the Headmaster. I _will_ be permitted to take the N.E.W.T. despite dropping the course, and I'll be allowed to practice and complete the course as independent study. That seems fair enough. In fact, I'm sure there will be enough people who will still claim that gave me an unfair advantage," she really seems to be getting more and more cynical as the week progresses. And it's only Tuesday. This morning's Howler won't have helped. 

When the Transfigurations Mistress still looks unconvinced, Hermione adds, "It was important to him, and I have to respect that. I had the choice to take it or leave it, and I made it. It doesn't seem right to go back on that now," she probably doesn't just mean dropping his class, but no one else needs to know that. "And I could imagine teaching a _bondmate_ might be different to simply having your nephews in class?" 

_That_ Minerva can understand. The truth of it is completely obvious as the young woman says it. It just seems so... odd to think of those two in _those_ terms. Because they're not. Clearly not. On the contrary, Minerva finds herself welcoming any signs her charge is _comfortable_ with the man. That borders on a miracle, both considering that _specific_ man and the attack on the witch only days past. Looking at them now... She honestly doesn't know _what_ she was thinking when she burst in there Sunday. In light of that, she wonders if a bonding really _should_ complicate things given they haven't _that_ sort of relationship. 

And then it strikes her that it speaks for him trying to establish at least... something. A more even footing between them. That almost seems too... optimistic a tack for Severus. Or maybe he just couldn't stomach the gossip that otherwise might have arisen. She amends that quickly; it seems highly _unfair_. He has put up with a great deal of defamation over the years, meeting it with a dignified indifference Minerva isn't sure _she_ could have achieved. 

She weighs if _this_ , formally ending the teacher-student relationship, was likely to stop that malicious chatter overmuch, decides it won't, and then suspects all the more that it really must be about changing the dynamic between them. And with that realisation, she finally stops lobbying for Madam Snape to rejoin his course. And possibly respects her colleague just that little bit more. 

"I also understand your reluctance to miss class, but the offer stands, Madam Snape, if you wish to take me up on it. You don't have to go to Transfigurations today. You could take the entire week, if you want to. And if you sincerely feel that leaves you behind on the material," the slight upwards tick of Minerva's lips suggests she doesn't believe it would, "then I would be more than happy to help you catch up. More 'independent study', as you say."

"It _really_ is generous of you to volunteer your time like that, but I need to go to all my other classes. One more or less shouldn't make a difference."

Minerva looks at her a little curiously. She has the sense the young woman means every word. There's nothing disingenuous about her reply. And yet Minerva can think of one _very_ good reason why her class might be different to the others. Strangely that doesn't seem to have occurred to her student. She's now uncertain if explaining her thoughts will be more likely to _cause_ or _avert_ a problem for the young witch. 

Minerva's disadvantaged because she doesn't know what really took place Friday evening. Hermione is worried about Malfoy's presence in her courses. In _all_ her courses. From Minerva's standpoint, unaware as she is of _who_ took part in the assault this weekend, it's the _location_ that should prove problematic. In truth, _both_ will be difficult. 

She decides it's better to broach the topic in a safe environment. If it _is_ going to cause Madam Snape discomfort, better here away from bystanders. Speaking as gently as she can, she explains, "I was concerned that my classroom might pose some difficulty for you."

Hermione's face loses all the colour she'd only just regained. She hadn't been thinking along those lines _at all_ , that's how focused she'd been on trying to ensure she'd remain calm when facing Malfoy in classes today. But now she is. 

Holy Cricket! 

That classroom! 

It comes flooding back, just how difficult it had been to enter it last night, even with the Professor leading her by the hand. She doesn't know if she can do it on her own. 

The struggle clear in her voice, Hermione replies, "I _need_ to go. I can't afford _not_ to."

"I'm sure there's plenty of time for you to make up the material before N.E.W.T.s," Minerva reassures her and does a good job of suppressing her amusement in the face of the woman's obvious distress. 

"No, Professor. You don't understand. We discussed it," she nods at Severus again, "I only have a small window of opportunity to demonstrate, convincingly, how little this has affected me." She swallows visibly, and Minerva tries not to let her scepticism at the probable success of such an attempt show. 

Hermione endeavours to pull herself together, not entirely successfully. "If I can make them believe this was of no consequence, he was reasonably certain it would reduce the net amount of flak I'll receive. It will all blow over faster instead of gaining steam. But I need to prove myself. I can't run and hide now, it will only make things more difficult."

Even without knowing the individuals involved, Minerva can imagine why that _might_ be true. To her mind, certain Slytherins will be hearing from their Death Eater family members what took place, and might proceed to change the way they behave towards the young woman. If anything, that should be another aspect of protection that bonding their Head of House will presumably provide Madam Snape. The more she thinks about the situation, the more sure she becomes that Severus is indeed offering her a great deal of protection at significant cost to himself, and again she regrets her words in anger to him Sunday. 

Fortunately, Minerva reads Madam Snape's reaction correctly and again hurries to offer her support. "Would it help if we walked to class together?"

The relief on Hermione's face answers for her, and Minerva proceeds as though she answered, eager not to make her feel she needs to express her gratitude. It really is the least she can do for her. "Then that's exactly what we'll do. Have you eaten anything yet?"

With some embarrassment, Hermione thinks of her promise to Luna and admits she hadn't. "Well then we'll have a house elf..." She doesn't even finish the sentence before a tray appears floating in front of the young woman. 

It's very definitely _not_ Infirmary food. In addition to orange juice, practically nonexistent at Hogwarts, there are some pumpkin pasties and grapes, things Hermione could easily take with her and eat on the way to class should she be pressed for time. The pasties are perfectly flakey and golden, and Minerva is trying to remember when she last saw grapes on the tables in the Great Hall. Someone clearly likes the witch. Quite a bit.

Sunny has just been waiting for his cue. His quick action ensures both that his Mistress has a good meal, none of that inferior tuck Polly is wont to serve, and that Mistress is now somewhat trapped on the bed by the tray. He's more than a little eager for her not to relocate to the chair, and devious enough to take steps to ensure she doesn't. 

Minerva stifles a surprised chuckle. "I guess someone was waiting for you. Fine, you eat your breakfast, and take your time. We're in no rush." Hermione almost reaches for her wand at that to cast a Tempus in disbelief, and the corners of Minerva's mouth curve slightly upwards again in amusement. "I assure you, Madam Snape, class won't begin without us. That's a clear advantage to being in my company," she adds with a wink. "You just see about getting some of that," she points to the floating tray, "into your belly.

"Can you summon Severus' elf?" She asks the young woman, another thought coming to mind. Hermione's expression answers for her as she takes the first bite of her pastie, _Merlin that's good_ , she's unsure if she can. 

"Try," Minerva suggests. "You'll need your books and school robes, of course, and Severus has assured us, on many, _many_ occasions, that we're not likely to be able to breach his wards. If you can't have _his_ elf fetch your things, I fear none of the others will be able to. Or did you leave some of your belongings in the Tower?"

As a matter of fact, Hermione _had_ left some of her things in the Tower at Professor Snape's suggestion. And now she's wondering _why_ he had been so insistent about it. Her eyes dart towards him as an extremely unpleasant notion creeps over her that it could very well have something to do with how he had anticipated his current invalidity. Or worse. 

Nevertheless, an experimental call for "Sunny?" soon has him shimmering into view on the other side of the Professor's bed. 

"Would it be alright, that is, would you mind terribly getting my Transfgurations text, parchment, a Self-inking Quill and my notebook for me? Oh, and my school robes and beaded bag, please?" Hermione bites her lower lip, unsure if she can have him do her bidding like that outside of chambers and still a little uncomfortable with the whole idea of having a house elf do her bidding _at all_. But she's sensible enough to recognise there's no time to eat breakfast, return to chambers, change and still get to class even vaguely punctually. 

"Yes, Mistress. Sunny is happy to fetch Mistress' things." He refrains from pointing out she's given no thought to appropriate footwear. Mistress seems to forget shoes regularly. _Humans_. He adds her socks and shoes and the unmentionables she quite logically also didn't mention mentally to his list. 

"Mistress will watch Master until Sunny returns?" He asks of her in exchange, rather unnecessarily, but he's found that having made his suggestions and extracted promises, humans are far more likely to do as he wishes. He's not been the elf to the Head of Slytherin all these years without learning a thing or two in the process. 

He disappears from view even as she's assuring him she won't venture from the Professor's side. 

She reflects that _that_ is indeed a very _literal_ description of her position, pressed as she still is against him, snug between his hip and his ribs. It's a distinctly pleasant sensation that she knows she really shouldn't get used to, but much as Madam Pomfrey's blanket had comforted her just at the feel of it, so does the contact with her bondmate. 

Professor McGonagall half turns to go, comfortable she's done what she can for the moment, "I believe Mr. Thomas and Mr. Weasley are still in the main room. Why don't I see after them while you eat your breakfast and get ready? I can wait for you in Madam Pomfrey's office until you're ready. There's _no hurry_."

"Thank you, Professor. I won't be long."

Minerva just gives her a reassuring smile and a nod as she leaves the little room.

  



	68. 11 11h Tuesday - To Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hermione, Severus, Sunny, Minerva, Poppy, Ron, Dean, Nurse Wanda Wainscott, Seamus, Polly the Infirmary house elf_

Dean's and Nurse Wainscott's seemingly endless nattering had blessedly, _finally_ , appeared to have almost petered to an end when Seamus came swanning in and it all resumed from the top, and Ron just can't take it any more. It's worse than an Unforgivable, he's _sure_. He's sat there in a mood fit to Avada, listening to the three of them chatting up a storm, and continuing his less than victorious march towards an empty bowl. 

It's more of a crawl really. 

This is the worst bowl of food he's ever had, and it probably doesn't help that his stomach is in knots. The stress from yesterday, no doubt, and he's feeling more than a little sorry for himself to boot. He doesn't deserve _any_ of this. 

Dean had gone so far as to call his battle with his pap 'gruelling', to Wainscott's accompanying laughter, and Ron's still weighing the pros and cons of just hexing him again. He doesn't fancy his chances with the Nurse as a witness, though, and she seems unexpectedly fast on the draw. McGonagall isn't far off, either, and Ron has the feeling Wainscott is likely to give the Professor a shout if he so much as _reaches_ for his wand. 

He frowns at his bowl again. He strongly suspects his gruel has been enriched with pearl glue, which the tacky texture seems to bear out, never mind the gumminess in his mouth, or the fact his tongue keeps adhering to the roof of his mouth about as well as if someone had applied a Sticking Charm, but he's making inroads. Slowly but surely. Those inroads cover some appreciable ground when he's suddenly spurred forward by the unmistakable sound of his mum's voice echoing from the back room. 

_**"SEVERUS SNAPE! WHAT DID YOU THINK YOU WERE DOING?"** _

Bloody. Fucking. _Hell_. 

With a horrible sinking feeling Ron realises his mum has sent Snape a _Howler_. 

Nurse Wainscott has her wand out and flicks another Mediward Silencing Charm in that direction with a brief, "Sorry, they lapse when things go quiet for a spell." And then happily returns to prattling on with Dean, who also shows no sign of registering that Ron's life as he knows it has probably just come to an end. 

Seamus has the decency to note it's an act of some significance. Sadly, it doesn't help in the least that he laughs about the inherent stupidity of it, and then laughs some more as he pictures the poor blighter's fate, _whoever_ it is. 

Ta. 

Ron's inclined to agree it won't be pretty, but fails - entirely - to see any humour in this. He has no idea how his mum could ever have thought _that_ would be a good idea. It's completely _mental_. He's trying to decide if he's better off _not_ knowing what she had to say, and leaving it to his imagination, or... Not that he has any _choice_ in the matter. And doesn't he just love _that_ , too.  
  


Bloody hell. 

Just how did she _think_ the git was likely to take that? It's not like Ron isn't in the bat's class. _Gin's_ the lucky one. The _only_ good thing about this is that his marks this year are dependent solely on his N.E.W.T.s scores, and Snape won't have much influence on that. Well... Sure, because Ron is such a natural Potions prodigy. Still, it could be worse, and Snape's not grading his exams, which should help. But it's not like the man can't have him in detention every weekend between then and now. 

And probably most weeknights, come to think of it. 

First he snatches up 'Mione and now this. 

Fucking hell. 

Ron begins to inhale the contents of his bowl, rabbit glue be damned, very eager to escape the Infirmary before anyone from the back puts in an appearance and desperately hoping against hope that Snape with his 'Marriage Related Injuries', bloodybuggeringfuckinghell, won't be out in time for class third period. 

Right, because Snape's _so_ likely to have forgotten this before double Potions on Thursday... Or any other time in the coming year. Or century. What's Hermione always banging on about? One hundred thirty some years... Yup, century sounds about right. Should be a doddle. 

But maybe Ron will get lucky and meet with a timely end before then. Something humane, perhaps. Herbology is always good for a surprise. Mandrake roots come unbidden to mind. Sprout isn't the only one to make the association between them and Howlers. 

He's debating if running to the back and trying a Confundus is even remotely an option... Probably not given the three people he knows to be in the room, but maybe if he borrowed Harry's cloak first... And then he's trying to recall... Oh, right, Obliviate, but it's not like they've learnt _that_ yet... He thinks it's a safe bet 'Mione would know it, swotty thing that she is, but pausing to have her teach it to him first is probably out of the question.

Adding insult to injury, Pig, traitorous owl, flies out of the room, apparently seeking some kind of _treat_ for his delivery. Oddly, no one in the back seems to have felt the need to reward him for the Howler. Shocking. It never occurs to Ron there could have been no food present; Hermione is _exactly_ the sort likely to reward an owl just the same for its bother no matter the payload. Pig takes one look at Ron's bowl, and then demonstrating still more treachery, beats a hasty retreat, presumably in the direction of the owlery for a more appealing morsel. 

Ron might even prefer a mouse himself, really, if he had a choice. 

And then his thought processes kick back in. Given Pig was the literal bearer of the bad tidings, Ron deduces this is all _Ginny's_ fault. Close enough. That's almost solid reasoning, if one ignores easily half the facts, that is. But no matter _what_ she put in her letter home, it's _no_ excuse for Molly's ill considered reaction. 

He's finally almost finished his breakfast, Wainscott has twice rejected his efforts as insufficient and he's beginning to take it personally, when it occurs to him he's still in yesterday's robes. All red-blooded teenaged boy, he decides it doesn't matter. Well, not _too_ much. Harry would disagree about those socks of his, quite vocally, but he isn't consulted in the matter. 

That Ron isn't just a _boy_ but a teenaged _wizard_ and should be more than able to cast a Charm for that, were he less spoilt or fundamentally lazy, is an entirely different matter. Since the curriculum overhaul last century, useful household Charms are naturally also no longer taught. All the more strange given the vast majority of wizarding families don't have house elves to call their own. Without some initiative, those Charms, and so many others, will remain unlearnt. 

Fortunately they remain documented for such a time when more sensible heads prevail, or for the more industrious or inquisitive students of magic, in obscure and wondrous things called 'books'. 

Ron, of course, has none of _his_ books with him, but things being as they are, he places less importance on those than fresh socks. Now if he appears in McGonagall's class without his _assignment_ , he'll have reason to reconsider his priorities, not that _that_ lesson is liable to have any lasting effect, but Minerva does what she can with the... raw material provided. 

Ron's just weighing his options. If he goes to get his things, there's no chance of making it to the Great Hall before class, and the thought of palatable food exerts a nearly irresistibly magnetic pull. Bugger. 

He blames the gruel. 

He's trying to figure out if there's a way to sort this... He _should have_ Patronused Harry and asked him to bring his things... Too late for that now. And then he wonders why Harry hadn't stopped by anyway, what with Ron being in the Infirmary overnight and all, and it never once crosses his mind that he hadn't exactly visited their other friend when she'd spent the _entire_ weekend there, and maybe Harry's a bit annoyed with him about that. 

Which is precisely when McGonagall appears and renders his deliberations immaterial. 

"Mr. Weasley, a word please."

Given she's just come from the back, Ron imagines there's a short list of probable topics she's interested in persuing, _none_ of which he cares to discuss in the least, and with his Head of House _almost_ least of all. 

Bugger. 

Still, it's preferable to the other two people back there.

* * *

  


Severus couldn't begin to explain his dreams if his life depended on it, which is a bit of a shame in as much as he'll be troubled by various aspects of them and probably would be less so if he had any real understanding of the reasons for them. Unfortunately, that lack of clarity won't change much any time soon, and he'd rather take poison (that's what Bezoars are for) than ask relevant questions that might clear things up, and a good deal more than just those dreams at that. Characteristically, when _that_ eventually changes, he'll have a great many other things to worry about beyond his dreams. 

For very related reasons, he'll be even _less_ capable of explaining his condition when he wakes. 

It is what it is, but primarily that's a mixed blessing. 

One clear advantage would have to be that his faulty understanding of the situation keeps him from self-sabotaging some of the benefits. As they are indeed rather beneficial, if the price is only ignorance accompanied by some self doubt and a purely psychological discomfort, perhaps they're still amply worthwhile. It might even provide an, admittedly thoroughly unwanted, opportunity for growth. Merlin forfend. 

Another would be that he ascribes some benefits to _her presence_ that aren't directly related. But _because_ he does, because he _truly_ , if reluctantly, believes it, all the _more so_ for his reluctance in fact, her presence will come to _have_ those benefits. Considering he'll be subjected to her company for quite some time to come, that's a _very_ good thing. 

To some extent that's simply a manifestation of the placebo effect, but that's a gross oversimplification that completely neglects the fact that positive feelings conveyed via their bond incontrovertibly cause more of the same. It's a fairly straightforward feedback loop. The better either one of them feels, the better the other feels, whether they like it or not. Severus' response to _that_ can be taken as a given. 

It becomes a battle of who feels _more_ , more _strongly_ , and _waking_ , that's definitely _Hermione_. No contest. He couldn't begin to compete given how much he Occludes; he's exceptionally busy trying to feel nothing at all. Some days, particularly bad days, that feels like his raison d'être. While Occluding does provide some defence against her emotional barrage, it won't be nearly enough. In the absence of his own emotions, he's left with _hers_ ; although it's perfectly sensible to find that highly annoying, it's probably still for the best. 

Physiologically, brains and bodies don't care if the feelings they're experiencing are their own. Not in the least. With the proper positive input, the related hormonal responses occur, and soon the person _is_ happier, just as surely as smiling, whether one is actually happy or not, will improve one's mood. And the bond only ups the ante because the transmitted feelings that trigger that response still continue to exist and be _felt_. Typically, that will annoy Severus no end, not that that will change a bloody thing, poor chap. He'll find it exceedingly irritating, but then oysters make pearls from irritants. This won't be all that different. 

Conversely, negative feelings also lead to more, and when Hermione stops taking a Calming Draught at night in the days to come, she'll be more sensitive to his nightmares, becoming increasingly more anxious and far less able to ground him or pull him out of them. Both of them will assume it's gotten worse in part for not being in closer proximity. While not quite as true as they'll believe, although far from mistaken, it probably doesn't hurt for them to think so. Quite the contrary.  
  


On the other hand, his lack of questioning means he'll never understand how he came to so viscerally associate _her_ smell with _comfort_. That naturally just makes him _un_ comfortable. Combined with the frequency of her appearance in his dreams in her _bathing costume_ , bloody Nora, initially it leaves him feeling like a dirty old man. Some days that matters more than others. 

If he asked himself what he thought of her scent, not that he ever _would_ , he _also_ wouldn't dignify it with a response. Instead he'd wonder if some foul magic were behind the thought. Were he administered Veritaserum and _forced_ , he'd eventually admit he finds it... _pleasant_. Instinctively, he _knows_ that, no matter how much he'd deny it, but it's a long way from 'pleasant' to 'comforting', and he'll be at a complete loss as to the explanation for it. 

He also won't come to suspect the true nature and certainly nothing of the extent of the properties of the blanket Poppy has gifted them. But to be fair, Poppy has had the blanket for ages, she's a highly qualified Mediwitch, and _she_ never suspected just how much it could help. It's efficacy is directly dependent on the need. As she never suffered from particularly troubling dreams, she never experienced its true strength. 

Had Poppy had any indication of how beneficial it could be for him, she'd have probably given it to him as a boy. Certainly years ago. And true to his nature, had he remotely suspected _why_ she had done so, he'd have Banished it to his school trunk or a cupboard, underestimating his need and therefore rejecting its usefulness. He _really_ is difficult to help. 

All of which contributes to how a number of things are conflated. He's in excellent company, however, as Hermione won't be able to keep cause and effect straight either, and she has a good deal more information to work with.  
  


A few things will be clear when he wakes shortly. He slept reasonably well, _stunningly_ well considering the evening he'd had. He'll feel _far_ better than he should after the Crucios yesterday. And the explanation for the long, curly brown hair on his _pillow_ is Miss Granger spent the night by his side. Fortunately he won't discover exactly how _closely_ for a while yet. He'd not be pleased just now to know that particular detail. 

Poppy will further confirm that he hadn't taken any combination of Potions that will remotely begin to account for his unusually good condition. No, of course not, that was _patently_ obvious, or he'd have been taking them regularly. He's not an _idiot_... Equally obviously, he'd certainly not had any Dreamless Sleep, or he wouldn't be worrying about dreams from last night at all. Also confusing the issues, Poppy won't think to mention Miss Granger had taken a double dose of Calming. And under no circumstances will she tell him how often Miss Granger practised casting spells on him this morning. 

As Hermione has repeatedly noted, in everything from his wards to Disillusionments cast on her, the effect of her bondmate's magic when applied to herself is rather... pleasant. It's not that different for him, he's just more reluctant to acknowledge that fact and has had less opportunity to notice. Her magic feels every bit as good, and there had been quite a lot of it. It's actually one of the few direct physical benefits of a bond, with or without the emotional connection. 

As a direct result of the things he knows and doesn't, he'll incorrectly deduce Miss Granger's presence had caused the significant reduction in his nightmares instead of the blanket. She undoubtably helped, but not nearly as much as he'll fear.

Similarly, she'll give touch more credit than it deserves. Touch _helps_ , just as Poppy had said. There's no question. Touch that's _trusted_ helps far more, and trust isn't something there's very much of in Severus' life. But what the bond transmits guarantees it. It's not that the bond is particularly magical in that respect, but the things it conveys frequently prove highly beneficial, and that aspect is easily overlooked. 

That leads to both of them assuming the bond works magic it doesn't, and thoroughly underestimating the power of a positive attitude, sincere caring or trust. Not that _that_ should be all too surprising in Severus' case, quite the opposite, but Hermione really should have known better. It only further illustrates how scattered her thoughts are after everything she's been through lately.

* * *

  


Hermione's exhausted. That's not exactly a good sign, as classes haven't even started yet, and she still has a full day before her. But the Howler and the thoughts of her parents had really taken a lot out of her. That's not to mention the terror from last night, the difficulties of the last several days or the stress of the last few months, naturally, because she seems to have steadfastly decided against even acknowledging it. _So_ healthy. But her day's only started and already she wants nothing more than to lie down.  
  


That's not _precisely_ accurate. 

What she _really_ wants is to lie down right _there_ on the bed next to _him_ , and snuggle in close, and curl up beside him... And of course she _won't_ , because it's wrong for so many reasons, not the least of which, but perhaps the most painful, being he doesn't actually _like_ her and she has no desire to steal a cuddle. But Merlin does she ever _want_ to. 

It's damn tempting. 

And frankly she kind of needs a hug.  
  


And then, serendipitously, he saves her from temptation as he rolls onto his right side, pulls up his knees, and curves his body around her as she sits there drinking her juice and Holy Cricket! It's... it's kind of _perfect_ really. Which helps explain why she doesn't move away and stays there just enjoying it for a bit. She's only human. 

It's like leaning into the world's absolute best squashy chair. With his right hand still on her hip, his arm resting in her lap, he's effectively encircling her. A human life preserver. He really is. He seems to have exposed still more of her back in the process - or Sunny has, whichever - and the Professor's bare stomach is now pressed tightly against her, and he really is _amazingly_ warm. And soft. And firm. And pretty stunningly _lovely_. 

And he still smells _wonderful_...

She's embarrassingly aware that the scent she likes is almost definitely _him_ , fairly positive now after a little more practice that _that's_ what's left behind as the rest is peeled away as a the result of how the Cleansing Charm works. She's a little proud that she hasn't taken to sniffing him. Much. 

If she could, she would wear him like a scarf. Or a top. A very snug top. Maybe more of a bodysuit...  
  


She needs to stop thinking like that. 

Now. 

That way lies nothing but madness...

She's briefly - _very_ briefly, but still - considering taking Professor McGonagall up on her offer to skip Transfigurations and staying there all morning instead. She doesn't even have to worry about Potions afterwards. As a matter of fact, she has nowhere to be until lunch. 

Merlin, she could probably even eat here...  
  


She shakes it off. She has no wish to explain to him when he wakes up, and he will soon, that she has promptly neither taken the Draught he suggested nor gone stoically to class as he advised. One morning without his influence, and she's going completely off script. Again. She doesn't want to disappoint. 

Well, _further_. 

She sighs. Still, the idea was nice. She may make use of it as a sort of sustaining daydream to distract her from the dreary realities of her day. Yes... 

_No_. 

Well, _maybe_...  
  


So she sips her orange juice and nibbles on her pastie and tries to think instead more rationally about the Howler she'd just received. Well, _he'd_ just received. If that allows her to enjoy the contact with him a little longer, so be it. 

The Howler hadn't been completely horrible, not _really_. Of course, she can honestly say that because it never finished its message, but it's just as well she doesn't know that. 

'Foolish'? That's not _so_ bad. Once she gets past the desire to malign the Weasleys' underdeveloped active vocabularies, again, and then once more just for good measure, it occurs to her to wonder why both women had - independently - labelled her actions with the same adjective. Hmm. It's far too easy to brush it off, and potentially more sensible to ask if maybe they know something she doesn't. It _is_ a possibility. Not usually blazingly _likely_ , hardly _probable_ , but they _are_ pure-bloods raised in wizarding society, and it _is_ a possibility. She wouldn't be doing herself any favours by denying that. 

What she really needs to do is go to the library and research bonds. Belatedly. Well, she now has Potions free, doesn't she. Maybe she can make a start then, perhaps check some books out to read later. That seems like something she really _should_ know more about. 

She wonders what's keeping Sunny with her clothes and then deliberates calling him back and asking him to check on Crooks' food and water, too. She decides it isn't fair, and Crooks is her responsibility anyway. She can always stop by during Potions, after all, especially if she limits the library trip to checking out some books and saves the actual research for later. She really wouldn't mind a shower anyway. 

Mercy, that shower... 

Perhaps there isn't quite time for _that_. But she smiles, just thinking about it, and reflexively, absentmindedly begins stroking the Professor's hand, not that she notices. 

But he might. Just a little. And it's doing very strange things to his dreams. All of which is welcome to remain unexplained until he's old and grey, as far as he's concerned, assuming he doesn't die first, which is far more probable. Merlin. He would prefer a Crucio to speaking to the young woman about them, and he knows _precisely_ what he's talking about.  
  


The beginnings of a plan of attack for the day forming in her mind, she turns her thoughts to what she's just done in dragging her Head of House to see the Professor. There's no better time to reflect on one's actions than _after the fact_. Naturally. There are _reasons_ she was sorted into Gryffindor. 

She had wanted to show Professor McGonagall how wrong she was about Professor Snape and what he goes through. Hermione had hoped to gain some support and understanding for him. Ironically, it occurs to her she was tired of people _not_ properly appreciating that and him, after... what's it been? A few days, on the outside? It makes her wonder how _he_ must feel. 

The correct answer would be 'resigned', so it's just as well she's unaware of it. She's not good at accepting resignation. 

Her goals had seemed honourable enough, and she thinks she was actually fairly successful in reaching Professor McGonagall. But sitting there now, she isn't sure that she _should_ have done this. In fact, she's fairly sure he wouldn't appreciate it in the least. 

But that's only part of the issue. 

Still, she has a sudden vision of him telling her, _'I need you to share_ nothing _about me with_ anyone _'_ , and here she goes and does _this_. It's followed in quick succession by an image of him drawling, _'I could see how that was unclear'_ in his most sarcastic manner, only this time she suspects he would 'not be amused'. 

She has the decency to blush. 

More importantly she realises something it conveys about the bond and her Vow. Despite a very clear statement _telling_ her he _needed_ her not to do _precisely_ what she'd done, and she _had_ believed he meant it at the time - that wasn't the issue, her Loyalty Vow _hadn't_ kept her from it. Not at all. There hadn't been even an intimation of it in play. 

There's a flash of relief that the Vow isn't too restrictive, that she's not some kind of remote controlled puppet, before she's immediately ashamed at the thought given _he_ had submitted himself to a Geas. That's followed by guilt, one of her other defaults, not that there hadn't been more than enough of it anyway. Less than a day after the announcement of their bonding, and it's already demonstratively brought him abuse, both verbal and physical. But a little more guilt hardly makes a difference at this point, and she turns her thoughts back to the matter of her actions and what they may mean with respect to her Vow, her free hand stroking his idly as she does so.

She had set out to do something in clear violation of his instructions without even a consideration for the Vow or his request of her, and she'd had _no_ difficulty, whatsoever, in doing so. When she contrasts it to how she had felt Sunday evening trying to tell the Headmaster about the shared dessert... And that had been beyond trivial, and this... Well, she _is_ quite certain he wouldn't _welcome_ it, even without the rather sweeping statement to reveal _nothing_ at all, and yet she _could_. She _had_. 

Why? 

_How_?  
  


Bugger. 

She'll need to give this some serious thought, because she thinks she's just discovered that she's a _massive_ threat to his security. 

She glances at him and adds: beyond the obvious physical threat the bond had already proven to be, that is.  
  


He _really_ doesn't deserve this.

* * *

  


There had been a number of conspicuously... _odd_ aspects to his dreams last night. 

Given their mutual experiences of his torture yesterday, his in person and Hermione's via the bond, Hermione's thoughts were otherwise occupied, her double dose of Calming did the rest, and the erotic component to the dreams had all but disappeared. Well, except for her clothing, which was entirely his own fault; he's only human. That bathing suit, in particular, is pursuing him relentlessly. As is her... sleepwear. 

That development, the change in tone, was predictable, or would have been, were either of them aware she was causing it. As it is, she doesn't know it's happening, and he won't understand why it's changed. But the less erotic nature of those dreams will be a huge relief to him, albeit a temporary one. It's unlikely to stay that way for all too long, which should probably be a consideration _before_ establishing an emotional link when one bonds a hormonal teenager. Of course, that had been entirely Albus' fault, on all counts.

Instead, the young woman's part in his dreams had shifted yet again.  
  


Typically for nights when he has visited the Manor, he has extremely graphic nightmares. He hates them with a passion, but _they're_ not what he's troubled by. No, he's all too accustomed to them, not that that makes them any less brutal. Those nightmares are pretty close to the limits of what he can endure. The upside to that lately has been that he is no longer likely to wake from them on those nights as his physical condition tends not to permit it anymore. Well, _he_ chooses to see it as an upside anyway.

_That_ fact, as well as his attitude towards it, would simply set Poppy's teeth on edge. He puts her through a lot. 

The problem is when he sleeps, he can't Occlude, and to make matters worse, his subconscious takes advantage of the opportunity to do some spring Scourgifying. Truthfully it helps keep him sane, well, sane-ish, but it feels like his mind is intent on trotting out every experienced horror - they're never _imagined_ , the reality is _always_ worse, for the very fact it's _real_ and he _watched_ , if not outright _participated_ \- time and again, until he becomes completely inured or breaks once and for all. Some days he isn't sure he can definitively rule out the latter anymore. 

All of which is unpleasant, and if he didn't _require_ sleep, he'd probably prefer to avoid it altogether. Which makes his dreams this past night more than passing strange. 

There were fewer nightmares than usual. _Far_ fewer. He actually had dreams that _weren't_ nightmares. Whole stretches of them, in fact. And then even the nightmares... changed. 

_She_ kept appearing in that chair - he's beginning to feel like it will haunt him for the rest of his days - and he kept freeing her. That was practically normal. By now he expects it. He'd almost miss it if it stopped. That wasn't so strange anymore. 

But by morning, when the dreams took an unexplained turn for the worse, which almost definitely coincided with her return to her own chair followed by the blanket's removal, there wasn't a nightmare he had in which she _wasn't_ appearing, and _soon_. Almost immediately. Not eventually, but right away. The dream would begin, and there she'd be in that chair. His efforts to free her became more reliable. Decisive. That, too, wasn't _so_ odd. A little unusual in that it wasn't wretched, but the development nevertheless seemed organic. The waking knowledge he has that he _had_ successfully rescued her seems to make it easier to _dream_ he was doing so. 

Then she'd begun telling him he didn't _deserve_ this. He needn't stay there and take the rest of whatever the hellscape of the moment offered. 

That was _extremely_ odd, but he'd been able to ignore it. 

And then... _then_ she took his hand and tried to lead him from the nightmare, which was frankly _bizarre_. 

At first she wasn't successful. Of course not. That's just not how his nightmares work, and he has far too much experience with them for this kind of nonsense. 

Except it didn't stop her. 

She never let go. 

When he refused to follow, she _stayed_. It had been a suspiciously Slytherin-worthy tactic, the dream she seems to have selected to attempt it for the first time. Or that should probably be: _he_ had selected for it, all things considered. It _was_ his dream, after all. But soon enough he _had_ to abandon the nightmare and start the next dream because it wasn't safe for her there. An attractive young Muggle-born at the Manor? Surrounded by Death Eaters? In a tiny black bikini? No, he'd _needed_ to leave with her. 

Especially as the bathing suit was unquestionably his fault. 

And then there she'd be, back in that chair, he'd save her, and she'd take his hand, reassure him he didn't deserve this, whatever the particular 'this' was, it never seemed to matter, and increasingly she began to pull, to tug, to struggle until finally he relented and followed her. And that was the really strange thing. He actually _did_. 

It didn't stop the nightmares. _Nothing_ stops the nightmares shy of Dreamless Sleep, or possibly a magical weave of blanket he's unaware of, but that's more accurately a 'reduction' than an outright 'stopping'. But she led him from one nightmare to the next, and they never got a chance to become particularly bad, because before it ever got to that point, before things could escalate, there she was, terribly insistent bushy haired little thing, grabbing his hand and pulling him on to the next dream. If he was lucky, in large, baggy clothing, with not a trace of lace in sight. 

And he _kept_ following. It's particularly strange because he doesn't think she has any clue where she's going, but he's growing more and more content to follow. 

No one's ever _insisted_ he didn't deserve this before. 

On the contrary, the majority of people around him make it very clear, it could _never_ be bad enough. Even _he's_ of that opinion. Fine, Poppy disagrees, but she hardly _insists_ , she simply _disapproves_ of the maltreatment, and then he can't help feeling she'd say that about _anyone_. He doesn't understand that even if that were _true_ , as perhaps the only person with any idea of the toll it's taken on him, it still very correctly defines his abuse as _inhumane_. But he's never really _listened_ to her. 

His bondmate, however, is proving a great deal harder to ignore. She's not loud. She's just ubiquitous. And incredibly stubborn. And _she doesn't_ deserve his nightmares, and she's forcing his hand. He'll wonder later if that's the Protection Vow acting even in his sleep, which is absurd, but not as completely so as he'll decide. It has far more to do with how he feels bondmates should behave, and the fact his dreams _are_ actually unhealthy for her. 

He can't work miracles, only magic, and he can't stop those dreams overnight. But they're beginning to change. For the better. 

He's really not sure he deserves the reprieve, but that doesn't mean he doesn't know how to appreciate it. He's certainly getting more rest than he usually does. 

And there are other aspects. 

In his dream, at least, her touch is unflinching. She doesn't find him embarrassing. _Humiliating_. For all the other things his subconscious seems willing to inflict upon him, it doesn't seem to have focused on that specific vulnerability yet. In his sleep, he's found a respite from that sad 'truth'. Possibly on some level because he was able to sense in the last night her touch actually _had been_ unflinching, but almost definitely not because he has realised he's wrong about her sentiments. Not yet. 

The feeling Friday as he'd carried her to the Infirmary when she'd unhesitatingly curled into him seeking safety, expressing thanks, had completely eclipsed the pain in his chest and his spasming limbs at the time. 

_This_ has more than a little of _that_. 

And then there's her concern, as omnipresent as the witch, radiating like a balm through the bond. _That's_ something he'll get absolutely right, identifying it correctly. He's already had a taste of it. But if he were awake, he'd find endless reasons to doubt it and negate much of its effect. He would succeed, too, he's a master at that. Asleep it just washes over him, helping to heal his Crucioed body. 

He knows _exactly_ how his nerves respond to the Cruciatus. It's very different now. It's like being dipped in Dittany, not that that would work, but this... does. 

This is... _comfort_. And it's precious little wonder he begins to associate it with her, coming as it does _from_ her via their bond. 

If one were open-minded, which Severus isn't - certainly not about this, perhaps one could consider if Albus' inclusion of the emotional connection wasn't _all_ bad...  
  


And when she stands there by his side in those nightmares and sees the things he does and still can say he _doesn't_ deserve this... That's an entirely _different_ kind of comfort. As though she were - credibly - suggesting he _isn't_ some kind of monster. If she sees him, truly sees him, and doesn't reject him outright...

_That_ should tell him how much he seems to need that confirmation. Or at least want it. Because that isn't _real_ , it's only a dream. But it _had_ made a difference, more than he is prepared to admit, that she had witnessed his treatment of Draco yesterday and not run from him, not _condemned_ him for it. That she had stayed by his side as they returned to quarters, spoken to him like a worthwhile human being and fretted about his safety at the Manor... Especially after what she's been through. It means a lot to him to know she isn't... frightened of _him_.  
  


Currently he doesn't have words for that. Right now it's simply a feeling. Later when it invades his thoughts and he attaches words, instead of appreciating her tolerance, or wondering if a less binary world view such as hers could honestly, _realistically_ absolve him, he'll attack her clarity of vision or her sense. He can be an idiot, but he came by it honestly. That will take time to heal. 

Asleep as he is, he's merely responding to the feelings across their bond. And he _is_ responding. It was worse when she left. _Everything_ was worse when she left. Of course the blanket was gone, too, there was no more of her magic being performed on him, no comforting touch, only one dose of Calming in her system. And finally, in place of any of those constructive things, there had been a Howler making her perfectly miserable, and she projected that, too. But none of that was particularly obvious to his subconscious. Naturally there was also less of her scent in her absence. It wasn't too much of a leap for him to connect his increased discomfort to that. 

And then she returned and he's no longer sure which of them isn't letting go anymore. He seeks the contact, the touch. Her reassurance that he isn't reprehensible, that he deserves... better. He... trusts her, when she says it, even if she _is_ only a dream. He knows she isn't lying. There's no deception. And deep down, he'd like to believe her, and the bond makes it so he can.  
  


If she had even a hint of it, the difference her presence makes for him, she wouldn't leave his side. Classes, Malfoy, N.E.W.T.s, the universe be damned. Sadly, she doesn't, and she takes the comfort that contact provides her for something stolen that _she_ doesn't deserve and shouldn't _have_. They're more alike in that regard than they'll ever know.

* * *

  


Having resolved that it was apparently _Miss_ Weasley who had owled Molly, Minerva lets Mr. Weasley off the hook. She knows that Albus had words with him and Mr. Potter, explaining the situation with Madam Snape, and she's unfortunately unaware of the argument her three lions had had, as it had taken place outside of the Great Hall; _had_ she been aware of it, she'd have taken the boy to task. Later she'll wonder that she _hadn't_ seen the trio together, but by then some lines will be drawn in the sand that well intentioned nudges in the right direction aren't going to fix. 

"Have a house elf fetch your things," she tells Ron, and just like that Polly pops into view. "And I'll expect to see you in class. The same for you, Mr. Finnigan." Seamus is quick to agree. 

With some relief, Ron tells Polly what he'll need from the Tower, thinking this just might enable him to make the Great Hall on time after all. He wouldn't dream of ordering food from the elf, though, as Polly keeps providing the noxious gruel to begin with. The _last_ thing he needs is another bowlful. 

"Mr. Thomas, will we be seeing you back in the Tower this evening or are you expected to stay here longer?" The Gryffindor Head turns her attention to the still mending boy. 

"Nurse Wainscott said I'll be out later this afternoon," he assures her, and Wanda reaffirms the statement. 

"Very good. I'm pleased to hear it. I was less pleased, however, to hear you'd been _hexing_ each other. That's very disappointing. You're _seventh_ years; I expect better from the three of you. And _you_ , Mr. Weasley, a _Prefect_." She shakes her head regretfully. When they really don't look suitably chagrined at her rebuke, she continues, "But I'm certain you'll do your very best for Mr. Filch. To be on the safe side and give you time to fully recover, shall we say Saturday afternoon?" _That_ gets her the response she was looking for, accompanied by a chorus of groans. She's satisfied. 

More so, in fact, as she knows that was when they had Quidditch practice scheduled. With the match against Slytherin less than two weeks off, and the Snakes having the pitch for practice in the morning, she's effectively doomed them to a training session before breakfast. She's counting on the rest of the team making their displeasure with _that_ felt. That's frequently a fair bit more effective than anything she does. She tries not to smile too noticeably. 

Poppy joins them, all too clearly struggling to suppress her own smirk as she approaches. She finds it truly astonishing how few students seem to grasp that a proper display of contrition is likely to reduce their sentence. 

"Poppy, would you mind if I used your office briefly?"

"Be my guest, Minerva. I had a question for you anyway. Shall we?"

"Gentlemen," she bobs her head at the boys as she takes her leave. 

They're still sitting there wondering how they'll break crack of dawn practice, on a Saturday no less, to their teammates. Presumably, _that's_ what Protegos are for...

* * *

  


Hermione finds her appetite diminished at the thought she's managed to somehow circumvent the Vow. She feels like a hazard on two legs. She pushes her tray from her, and at just that moment Sunny shimmers back into view with her things. 

Suspecting he'd reached the limits of her patience, it struck him as the proper time. Better to put in an appearance now before she felt the need to summon him. He's learned not to make his actions _too_ noticeable, which is a very Slytherin adjustment to the usual house elf creed of attracting little or no attention to their work. 

Hermione can only just thank him before he disappears again. 

Feeling very guilty now for any comfort she's deriving from the Professor's presence, and isn't _that_ a way to understate her effectively misusing him as _furniture_ , she gets up, casts the Cleansing Charms on herself again, more out of a sense of order than anything else, and begins to get dressed. She's no longer shy about changing in front of him, knowing full well, _sensing_ that the Professor is sound asleep.  
  


Madam Snape is just buttoning the blouse to her school uniform when Poppy enters, a little surprised to see her apparently disrobing so casually in front of Severus. Well, robing. The Matron's eyes dart unnecessarily to him to determine he's still very much asleep, but then she should know that almost best of all having given him his potions. Minerva had sadly had to validate her fears about the arrival of some _thoroughly_ objectionable mail - too offensive for words, she can't believe the _gall_ of some people - and Poppy wanted to check on the young woman before she left for class. The past few days have been quite the ordeal, and a little caution with her seems well advised. 

"I beg your pardon, I should have knocked."

"Not at all, Matron. If it mattered, _I_ should have closed the door," Hermione disagrees amiably. Having shared a room with a number of other people for years who are quite likely to open the door, coming and going at any given point in time, Hermione has grown accustomed to changing in semi-public areas. Manoeuvres like changing her knickers under her uniform's skirt are practically reflexes, lower inhibitions a matter of course.

"Professor McGonagall told me about the Howler... How are you feeling?"

"He had suggested I should take the Draught of Peace, but I didn't think of it earlier. I don't suppose I can take it now having taken a Calming Draught?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Madam Snape. That's entirely my fault. You were doing so well, I'm afraid I didn't think it would be necessary. I suppose I _hoped_ it wouldn't be. Unfortunately you can't combine them, but I can give you a second Calming Draught to increase the dosage. That will last you through the afternoon classes," Poppy Summons one as she speaks, meaning to make it as easy for her as possible. Some of the students are much too quick to take potions, and some far too slow. Madam Snape is more the latter than the former. She hands her the phial, and the Potion is quickly consumed, the matter settled. 

"If you think that isn't sufficient, or if you're not feeling up to it, you may stay here for the day. I can excuse you from classes."

"Thank you, Madam Pomfrey. I appreciate it. Professor McGonagall already offered, but I'd like to give it a try. If it becomes overwhelming, I can always still take you up on it." Poppy nods. 

Minerva had also confirmed Poppy's suspicions about why Madam Snape had fetched her to the Infirmary. Poppy's rather pleased about that, approving of her methods in dragging Minerva there. Merlin knows, they aren't so very different to her own. It's not something she'd have done herself, obviously. Not with _Minerva_. It's too unsubtle. His bondmate is one thing. Fellow staff another entirely... Severus probably _would_ have her guts for potions if she did, but she approves of the young witch's bottle. Greatly. 

"It's good that you care, you know. That he has _someone_ who cares what happens to him," she says quietly, jerking her head towards Severus. "Because no one else seems to." Madam Snape looks half stricken at that. The Draught probably hasn't kicked in yet, or perhaps that thought really _does_ cut rather deeply...

"And for what it's worth, I think it was a _lovely_ gesture showing Minerva, Professor McGonagall that is, what _they've_ put him through again, poor lamb," she tucks that wayward strand of hair behind his ear again while Hermione lowers her gaze, embarrassed at the praise. She contemplates ever seeing the Professor as a 'lamb'. A crow, absolutely. A lamb? Not so much. 

She's just begun straightening her clothing, somewhat nervously, when Madam Pomfrey continues, "Would you mind terribly if I set your hair to rights? It's a little... Well, you _had_ practised quite a lot this morning. It's a bit... wild." Hermione pinks but naturally has no objections and moments later her hair is a good deal tamer. Far from _tamed_ , but it's all relative. "It's not as nice as it was Sunday, I'm afraid. It's a safe bet that it will turn out better if one hasn't used the Refreshing Charm quite so... aggressively on oneself first."

Hermione blushes but smiles, "Thank you. You'll have to show me that one, too, sometime." Madam Pomfrey simply smiles in return and waves her wand in a completely different formation as she voices a spell Hermione thinks she's never seen or heard before. And suddenly there, floating in the air before her, is a small scrap of paper, clearly Conjured, and on it is the Incantation and the notation for the wandstroke the Matron had just performed to arrange her hair. "How on earth did you do that?" She asks, slightly awed. The Conjuring she can see, but that writing... That _is_ impressive. 

Poppy laughs. "It's how mediwitches and healers make notes for patients, listing which potions they'll require and at what intervals before they send them off to the apothecary. Surprisingly, it turns out it's useful for short notes, too," she winks. "But I swear the healer's version has some extra twist to it that makes it all but illegible. It's crucial to their standing, apparently. Merlin help them if anyone can read their writing; then I think they're demoted."

Hermione laughs now too. "Not so different from the Muggle system then," thinking affectionately of her father's... penmanship. She turns to the chair beside the Professor's bed and takes the blanket folded there and carefully places it in her beaded bag. 

Poppy's eyebrow raises in recognition of the Undetectable Extension Charm, but she says nothing. She has similar suspicions about some of Severus' robe's pockets. 

"Thanks again for the wonderful present," Hermione tells her as she gathers her books. "I'll treasure it always." 

"Not at all, Madam Snape. It was my pleasure. Shall we go find Minerva?"

"When do you think he'll wake?" She asks, with a nod to the Professor, grabbing the grapes from the tray to take with her. 

"Before lunch," the Matron assures her. "Would you care to join us for the meal here?" Hermione practically beams in reply. With a last look at the Professor that both Sunny and Poppy would happily characterise as 'fond', she turns and follows the Matron from the room.

* * *

  


Professor McGonagall is in Madam Pomfrey's office, just as she promised, sitting at the Matron's desk and making some notes. Nurse Wainscott is also present, writing on the wall-spanning blackboard. When the witches enter, Minerva waves her wand, and the parchment rolls itself together and shrinks on the desktop before her, and the Transfigurations Mistress pockets it without further ado. As she puts it away, her fingers brush another piece of parchment, which reminds her of something she still needs to do. She removes it as she stands. 

"All ready then?" She asks Madam Snape. 

The young witch nods. "Yes, thanks for waiting."

Minerva smiles in reply, "Very well, I just need to take care of a quick errand and then we can go. Poppy, thank you for the use of your desk."

"That's quite alright, Minerva. I wasn't using it."

"I wanted to leave this for Severus..." Professor McGonagall gestures with the parchment in her hand as she begins to lead the way back towards the room Hermione had just left with long strides.

* * *

  


Ron's put on the clothes the Infirmary elf brought him and he's in a right mood. He isn't sure what the creatures have done with his uniform, but it's bloody uncomfortable. He pulls a bit desperately at his collar. The words he's looking for and not finding are 'over starched' and possibly 'shrunk', those gaps in his vocabulary due to his complete lack of experience with doing laundry, or much of anything else by way of housework. To make matters worse, the elf seems to have brought him a pair of too tight pants that he could swear he'd disposed of weeks ago. Maybe they'd still been at the bottom of his trunk. Probably with some highly dodgy socks from the smell. His bollocks feel like... Well, it's uncomfortable, that's what it is. 

It leaves him looking a little... pinched. 

Next time he'll Incendio the pants to make sure they're gone for good. For the moment, though, he'll have to make do, as he has little desire to go commando in the scratchy wool trousers of his uniform. Merlin's hairy ballsack. Well not for long with _that_ sort of friction... But then 'Merlin's hairless ballsack' hasn't got quite the same ring. 

And it's not like Ron could enlargen the pants or soften the trousers, after all... Fine, softening is tricky. But Engorgio is part of the second year curriculum. Between that and the Arresto Whatsit, one could safely presume he hasn't revised second year since O.W.L.s. If even then. Fortunately, Hermione is thoroughly unaware of his predicament, or she'd happily enlighten him. But probably not fix it. 

"Ron, mate, give it up. There's no way you're going to make it to the Great Hall and back before class," Dean tries telling him, casting a Tempus for demonstrable proof and shaking his head. 

"Just have the elf bring you something else to eat if you're that hungry," Seamus adds rather practically. _So_ much easier for him to say as he hadn't had Infirmary grub this morning. 

"No way. _No_." Ron's adamant. "One bowl of that stuff was enough. I'd rather be Crucioed than have a second."

As their combined luck would have it, Hermione is just walking past, trailing some distance behind Professor McGonagall, and at that remains standing there, staring at him like he were some sort of Flobberworm excretion. She's already _plenty_ angry for the Howler. Hell, she was still angry from yesterday. But _this_... The Professor is lying in the back, the victim of Merlin knows _how many_ Crucios, and Ronald... 

The bloody _nerve_ of him!

"Oh really, Ronald? Have a lot of experience with that, do you? Crucios?" 'Frosty' doesn't begin to describe her tone. 

"No, mostly with Infirmary gruel, but I think it's enough to know what I'd prefer." He can be snippy, too. 

"Then by all means, may you be so fortunate," she answers with an oh so obviously false sweetness, before flouncing off again after their Head of House. 

It takes the boys a moment to work that through. 

"I think she just wished you..." Seamus starts.

"Yeah. Ta. Got it. Cheers," Ron interrupts. 

"What did you do to her _this_ time?" Dean asks, because he really _is_ the socially best adjusted of the five roommates by far. 

" _None_ of this was _my_ fault," Ron snaps irritably, grabbing his things and storming out of there before the witches can return. 

"So what's he so defensive about?" Seamus asks Dean. 

"Not sure, but it's enough to make you wonder," he answers, wrinkling his brow thoughtfully. He just keeps from rubbing it, not wanting to disturb the thick layer of Salve on his face. It's an odd look, giving him a sticky, orangish sheen, but he wears it with some dignity and a complete lack of whinging that practically guarantees his lunch will also be edible. How strange that no one seems to make that connection.

* * *

  


Minerva floats the parchment to Severus' bedside table. It's the voucher he'd left her for a new painting and her note thanking him, saying it isn't necessary, to consider it her contribution to Madam Snape's mental welfare. Especially in light of what he went through last night, she's relieved that had been her response. She's still feeling guilty for those moments she'd considered purchasing the most expensive portrait in the store this morning. Well, no one's the wiser. She wants him to see it when he wakes, to know she's aware of his condition, his suffering, and she hopes he'll feel a little... appreciated as the result. There's a good heart beating in that woman's chest. 

_Naturally_ , it will primarily succeed in making him more uncomfortable instead, but that's hardly _her_ fault. 

Reasonably pleased with her solution, Minerva escorts his bondmate to her classroom.

* * *

  


"I wanted to thank you, Professor, for the changes you made to your classroom," Hermione thinks to mention as they walk through the corridors and she snacks on her grapes. She still appears reasonably relaxed, and Minerva is satisfied with her choice to accompany her to the classroom. She isn't aware of the young woman's Potions regimen, however, which has her trusting those appearances too much. 

"Not at all, it was the least I could do." Honestly, _she_ was having trouble with not seeing the young woman in that chair when she looked at the room. She had really needed to change it for her _own_ peace of mind. But she shouldn't like to imagine, if it weighed on _her_ that heavily, how Madam Snape would have come to terms with it. No. It needed doing. 

"I'm afraid we also removed a portrait..." Hermione begins to apologise. 

Minerva lets out a huff of laughter. "Severus mentioned it. In fact, he left me a gift voucher for a new one." Honestly, when she says it out loud, it sounds absurd. Accepting it would have been embarrassingly petty. 

Guilt washes over Hermione instantly. Really, she may as well remain permanently guilty, at this rate. It's never gone long. "Oh no, that's _my_ fault. He shouldn't have to pay for that... " She's at a bit of a loss as to a solution and falters instead of making a constructive suggestion, suspecting her budget doesn't allow for magical portraits. 

"Not to worry, Madam Snape. It most definitely _wasn't_ your fault, _none_ of it. And that voucher was what I was returning to Severus just before we left. Don't worry, he won't be expected to foot the bill," she smiles kindly. "I can assure you, Albus has a whole storeroom full. Again, it's the least I could do."

"Believe me, it's greatly appreciated." As they draw nearer the room, Minerva notices the young woman's pace slowing, that she's stopped eating her fruit, and correctly guesses why. 

She tries to distract her. "Any preferences for a new portrait subject?" She asks, taking Hermione completely by surprise. It does the trick for a while. 

Her first response is a quick, "Just no centaurs." The speed of the answer strikes Minerva as amusing before it hits her as sad. She prefers not to pursue why, doing them both a favour. 

"Well that narrows it down greatly," she drawls. "No other ideas?"

Her opinion genuinely solicited, in very typical Hermione fashion, she feels this is a weighty question. Considering the current political climate, she nibbles her lower lip a little and a bit hesitantly asks, "Are there any portraits of Muggle-borns to be had? Preferably witches..."

"That sounds like an excellent idea. I'll see what we have available."

The distraction worked, and they're right outside the room before Hermione draws to a halt. "Come, Madam Snape, it's just a little further. You've done beautifully so far." Hermione responds well to praise, at least from people she respects, and she starts moving again. Minerva shifts to the side to allow the smaller witch to open the door for herself, in her own time. She can see her breathing change. "I'm right here with you, and I guarantee you, you're safe. No one will hurt you in my presence."

It's a lovely thought, but utterly incorrect. The flaw of course lies in how people perceive hurt differently, and some things can't be stopped by even the strongest Protego. Still, she does her best, which is better than most by a long shot. 

Not knowing any differently, Hermione believes the lie. Meeting her eyes, Minerva raises her hand again slowly, lifts a brow in question, and at Hermione's nod, places it reassuringly on her shoulder. "You can do this. I'm right behind you."

"Thank you, Professor, for walking me over," she says as her hand reaches for the doorknob. 

"Any time. Please don't hesitate to ask." And with that Hermione throws the door open, perhaps a bit dramatically, but it gets the job done, and the room lies waiting before them.  
  


They've managed to make it to class on time, and when they enter the room there are only two other students there, quite startled by the door slamming open so loudly. The witches pretend there was nothing at all odd about it, and the Ravenclaws soon resume their conversation. Minerva is puzzled to see the younger witch smiling now as they enter the room, tracking her gaze to... her chair, but unable to quite see the swooping crow properly at her height and standing off to the side as she now is. But that's when she spots the carvings. She stalks closer, until she reaches the front and sees her Animagus form, and then she turns to Madam Snape with a simple, "Severus?"

Hermione nods and smiles. "I think he wanted to say 'thank you'."

"It's beautiful." Examining his work with a widening smile on her face, Minerva is now even more pleased with herself for returning the gift voucher. It's just a pity that's not mutual.

  



	69. 11 11i Tuesday - Déjà Vu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hermione, Harry, Ron, Minerva, Sybill Trelawney, Peeves, Draco, Theo Nott, Blaise Zabini, Daphne Greengrass, Tracey Davis, Seamus Finnigan, Ernie Macmillan, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Hannah Abbott, Terry Boot, Padma Patil, Mentioned: Severus, Filius, Horace Slughorn_

Nearly setting something by way of a personal record, Sybill braved the Great Hall again for breakfast this morning, hoping to hear some talk of her prediction, her fourth period Prophecy from yesterday. What she got instead was quite an earful of Howler and a reminder of why she shuns meals with all and sundry in the first place. Really, _she_ should have seen that coming. 

She _really_ should have, especially when one considers even _Severus_ was able to predict them. Perhaps he missed his calling. As enjoyable as he finds the instruction of Potions, undoubtably Divinations would be _so_ much better. Hmm... Although to be fair, the students _are_ less likely to blow one up. There's something to be said for the lack of combustibles in the Divinations classroom. Beyond Trelawney's myriad scarves and high-octane breath, that is, but then neither would be Severus' problem. Typically.  
  


'Gryffindors,' Sybill scoffs to herself in a huff of sherry, apparently forgetting that two of the three Howlers had actually been sent by a Hufflepuff, of all creatures. It's easy to understand, however, the things being such a quintessentially _Gryffindor_ means of communicating one's displeasure. It's all too easy to confuse the facts. Or perhaps that, too, is the sherry. 

If crowds are injurious to her Inner Eye, the noise... Well she is now quite deaf and, at least innerly, blind. The deafness, however, had been the result of a Charm. It's a little unreliable in terms of how long it lasts, but well worth it, and she has the next period free anyway. The Charm effectively tunes the world out. Turns it _off_. The silence is ethereal. She finds it's generally helpful when she wishes to focus. 

Or deal with schoolchildren. 

Case in point, focusing that is, in this specific instance _on_ schoolchildren, while everyone else seemed to have eyes, and presumably ears, only for the shrieking bits of post, she had noticed an influx of those odd mail snakes the Slytherins are prone to receiving. Years of careful observation have taught her they must be unpleasant. The recipients not infrequently are missing from class the following day for poorly defined 'medical' reasons. She finds the delay highly significant, not the least because she knows something _will_ happen that _hasn't_ yet. _That's_ her baps and butter. She's done nicely for herself recognising those criteria. 

It appeared Mr. Malfoy had received _three_ of them, something _she_ hasn't witnessed before, not that she attends meals all _that_ regularly, but judging by the reactions of his Housemates, it's an event of some magnitude. 

To make certain she spotted that correctly, it wouldn't do to unnecessarily make an inaccurate prediction, and there's no excuse for laziness, she leaves the Hall a little early and lurks by the doors. When the blond Slytherin and his friends leave for class, she inadvertently bumps into him. 

No one thinks anything of it. 

Given the thickness of her glasses, the prevailing assumption is she's almost legally blind, and _not_ just innerly. The Ministry had gone so far as to offer to assign her a seeing eyed Augurey via an affiliate programme of St. Mungo's. Even supposing a bird were adequate to the task, considering the so-called Irish Phoenix can't do much more than moan, rather annoyingly at that, she fails to see how _that_ should work, and not just because of her ocular impairment. One moan for left, two for right? Further taking into account that they can't predict a damn thing more than the weather, a feat even _she_ could accomplish (the simple application of a Temperies to tell the temperature determines the only crucial difference between 'rain' and 'snow' - precipitation is a given), she has a dark suspicion the proposal came from a one time student of hers, and is a dig so obvious that even she should see it. Without glasses. 

She's lobbying for a parrot instead, at least they could provide direction, but so far she's being put off as parrots are supposedly not magical 'enough'. As though _that_ were a thing. One is, or one isn't. This feels like more of Umbridge's nonsense. 

And it's patently false, besides. 

Still, it could have been worse. At least they hadn't tried to assign her a Fwooper for the task. The colourful little African birds say nothing at all. Well, unless the Silencio ensuring that fails, in which case their song induces madness. In light of which, she can't imagine _why_ the Ministry _wouldn't_ try to use them for the purpose. It sounds like a _perfect_ fit. Even to her deafened ears.  
  


Mr. Malfoy's books go flying, predictably, she's gotten incredibly good at this particular ruse, and as she bends to help him gather his things, she surreptitiously exposes his wrists. Yes, just as she thought. Three of the paper twists, now practically wooden from the feel, wrapped tightly about his lower arm. Good to know. She can undoubtedly use that. And it's Arithmantically sound to boot. How perfect. 

She turns to watch as the boy slinks off to class. 

It doesn't _quite_ compensate for the thoroughly disappointing lack of attention her Prophecy from yesterday is receiving, but yes... She can use that.

* * *

  


Ron isn't even trying to keep his pace to a walk; there's no time for it. He just hopes he doesn't run into any of the Professors. More and more students appear heading in the opposite direction, clearly finished with breakfast and on the way to their classes. It's only a matter of time before he sees Harry, quite sensibly also headed away from the Great Hall. 

"Harry! Brilliant! I was just going to get something to eat." 

"Hey, Ron. Yeah, I was on my way to..." Harry begins a little aimlessly, still preoccupied with the ideas Ginny put in his head, and an uneasy feeling creeping over him that his meeting Ron should in _any_ way be considered 'brilliant'. Where else would he be at this time? It's hardly a _chance_ encounter. 

"Come with me," Ron commands, taking his friend by the elbow and turning him back the way he'd just come. "I really need to get some food." 

"Ron, there's no time for that now..." Harry suspects Ron thinks they're less likely to get into trouble together, which is absurd. If memory serves, it's quite the opposite. Harry's trying to recall point losses of consequence, recieved together and alone, and he's pretty sure together they've racked up quite a deal more. As Hermione would point out, if only for there having been _two_ of them, the deductions were quite logically _doubled_. 

"I was in the Infirmary, y'know," the ginger chastises, the reproval clear. 

"So I gathered."

"Well, I'm hungry and need to get something to eat before class." His eyes narrow suspiciously, "Did you go down to the kitchens last night without me?"

"No, mate, but I _did_ just eat breakfast. Look, Ron, you're going to be late to Transfiguration if you don't get a wriggle on, and there's no point _both_ of us being..."

But they've almost made it to the doors, and Ron won't be deterred. Not after the morning he's had. And there is no way he's facing the Great Greasy Git on an empty stomach. That's just not on. 

He relentlessly drags Harry on with him.  
  


Unfortunately when he bursts through the doors to the Great Hall, the room is empty and there's nothing left on the table but a single tray of rather unpromising bread. 

Still, he's more than a little desperate, as one gets having missed a meal or two, and he grabs a couple of slices to take with him before giving in to Harry's pleas to _get moving_. 

Stuffing the first slice into his mouth as they hurry back into the corridor they'd only just left, Ron moans around the half-chewed chunks, "Ugh." It sends more than a few sizeable crumbs flying in a way that usually makes Hermione cringe; there are advantages to being on the outs and missing such displays. 

"What _now_ , Ron?" Harry's annoyance isn't veiled, not even thinly, not that Ron notices. It could be wearing Harry's cloak for all it registers. 

"Stale," he informs Harry woefully. Not that the staleness in any way stops him, or even slows him in wolfing the rest in his hunger and desperation. 

And it _is_ better than the gruel.

* * *

  


'Hogwarts: A History' is good for more than just propping open doors and flattening botanicals for artistic displays. While unquestionably many things have been left out, some deliberately, some forgotten, some simply unknown to the authors, one of the things one _can_ learn from the book are some of the details of Peeves' contract. 

Naturally the number of students who actually _did so_ , generally Muggle-born or -raised, wouldn't be sufficient to make up a Quidditch team. Not that that poses a problem, as they - every last one of them, Hermione is in extremely well suited company - also aren't the least bit gifted in that regard. And it's not as though there were a secret handshake to identify one another were they of an inclination to play a quick, if intrinsically skill-less, match. 

Most hearing the contract referenced take it for hyperbole or a strange turn of phrase, and currently there probably aren't a dozen students at the school who are even aware such a thing truly exists. Easily half of those are the attentive children of solicitors, the legal negotiations with a _Spiritous Apparition_ , human or otherwise, but most especially with a _non-being_ being something of a watershed in wizarding legal history. The less attentive children typically doze through their parents' recitations, remaining blissfully unaware of this and so many other things. 

One can debate which of the concessions made to the Poltergeist is more important until one is every bit as much a spirit as Peeves; it doesn't really matter. What matters, particularly at this precise moment, is that almost a century and a quarter ago Headmistress Mole had agreed to leave him _his choice_ of Hogwart's stale bread and he hasn't forgotten to this day. Not at all.

The elves, rather clever creatures really, had come to realise they were best off depositing this well away from their kitchens for Peeves to do his choosing _there_. Elsewhere. _Anywhere_ but the kitchens would do. Peeves can be fairly easily led if one puts one's mind to it, and he rather liked the idea of them _serving him_. Quite a bit. As such, they've taken to leaving the stale bread on an overly ornate silver tray in the Great Hall after meals. 

As an added benefit, it keeps the Poltergeist busy when students are trying to get to classes, and he's less likely to attack them in the hallways. The drawback is that _when_ he does, he's suitably armed, but one can't have everything. It certainly helps to discourage stragglers, and once in the company of their teachers, students are reasonably safe from Peeves. Elves can be very considerate creatures. 

Which explains why it is a bad idea of truly noteworthy proportions to help oneself to the stale bread on precisely _that_ tray. Beyond the fact it frankly doesn't taste all that great.

* * *

  


Draco's flagging, sufficiently that Theo's worried. It's just his friend's luck that the blind Seer had overlooked him - and how ironic is that - and nearly sent him sprawling. Draco's not too steady on his feet today to begin with. 

The last twelve hours have been troublesome in a way that leaves Theo very unsure of himself, although that's kind of his natural state anyway. Only close friends might perceive a difference, they number a grand total of 'one', and _he's_ not noticing much of anything just now, wobbling along as he is beside Theo at the moment. 

And Theo had _hexed_ him into unconsciousness last night. 

That's quite a thing. Especially for him.  
  


Draco had come crawling in shortly before curfew yesterday, looking like something the Kneazle had coughed up and then not deigned to drag in, all too evidently suffering the effects of the Cruciatus. It says too much that Theo recognises it, or that he even considers it a possibility for what might have happened to his friend, both that he thinks Draco could be on the receiving end of an Unforgivable and that Theo doesn't automatically discount such a thing universally, not even at school. 

Had it been the Gryffindor Tower, the assumption would have been the after effects of the Jelly-Legs Jinx, and they'd probably have been correct. Things are very different in the Slytherin seventh year boys' room. 

Theo had naturally asked the blond what happened, but he hadn't been too surprised when he didn't get much of an answer. He's far from stupid, and a smart wizard does _not_ press the issue in their circles. Not if he isn't suicidal anyway. And Theo's not. Yet. 

_"Merlin, Draco, what happened to you?"_

_"Crucio."_ It was hardly recognisable as his voice. Theo had helped him to his bed. 

_"Yeah, that much I gathered..."_

All too aware there wasn't any Pain Relief to be had in the Infirmary, Draco had begged him to Stupefy him instead of taking him there. 

_"That really doesn't sound like a very good idea, Draco. We need to go tell Professor Snape. Please..."_

Draco had only snorted. _"He's well aware of the situation."_

 _"Couldn't he help you?"_ That just got him another derisive snort. Theo was a little desperate, but he had an idea as to what the Antispasmodic that appeared on his nightstand was meant for. Theo knows the game. He can't betray what he doesn't know, and he deliberately didn't even _try_ to think about who might have left it, why, or how they'd have known it was needed in the first place. He has no desire to get innocent people in some very serious trouble. He's not even sure he wants to get _guilty_ people in that kind of trouble either, not in general, and _particularly_ not for something like providing a much needed medicinal Potion. Merlin. 

_"I think he has bigger problems,"_ Draco had finally answered once he settled back on his pillow, had taken a few tortured breaths and was able. _"I believe he was on his way to pay his respects to our families."_

Theo went quiet at that. There are few things worse in his world than seeing _anyone_ from their families. Subsequently, when the Professor wasn't at breakfast the next morning... Well, Theo had some rather specific concerns, and they'd certainly been exacerbated by the Poste Serpentes. 

In the end, he had fetched the phial and given it to Draco and then just did as his friend asked. _"Stupefy."_

And he finds it _bloody_ disturbing that he basically hexed his friend senseless for the night. Because that's just not who he is. It never has been. He's not the sort who goes around hexing people, certainly not those he likes. Granted, the Stupefy is technically a _Charm_. Theo suspects how those things are classified is a question of either marketing, Galleons exchanging hands, who one knows at the Ministry, or some combination of the three.

But he's careful not to let Professor Flitwick hear him say that.  
  


Still supremely uncomfortable with just about everything, Theo just took Draco's books from him once Professor Trelawney returned them and carried them the rest of the way to Transfiguration. Draco sort of looks like he could use some carrying himself, to be honest. If all else fails, there's always the Mobilicorpus.

* * *

  


Hermione watches as the classroom slowly fills from her spot in the front row on the bench furthest from the door. The three Hufflepuffs are there, as are all six of the Ravenclaws now seated in the middle of the room. It's not exactly a _flattering_ way of seeing things, not that she realises it, but she can't help feeling no one _who matters_ has arrived yet. 

No Malfoy. No Zabini. No Nott. 

No Harry. No Ron. 

There's still time, of course, but it makes the room seem rather empty, and realistically, she's waiting. 

She can feel the difference the second phial of Calming makes. She should have taken it from the outset. She _should_ have taken the Draught of Peace like _he_ told her. There's no way he isn't going to find out, either, as she won't be able to take it before he wakes. Bugger. 

And she did _not_ just consider, no matter how briefly, sneaking over right after class and giving him another dose of a Sleeping Draught. 

Fine, she did. But she most certainly never _would_. There's a great difference between thinking a thing and _doing_ it.  
  


And now she's thinking about it again...  
  


And then just like that, she's trying desperately _not_ to think about someone giving _her_ a Potion _she_ didn't want in this very room... 

And feeling even worse that she - even ever so briefly - really, _really_ briefly - had imagined _dosing_ the Professor. 

Honestly, it a good sign, as bad as that sounds. It really is. Because it means she's not as scarred from the events of Friday night as some might fear. On the other hand, it's a rather scathing statement about the society in which she lives that _those_ are the kind of things that might cross a normal person's mind, even in jest. But she can't entirely help being a product of her society. 

Unfortunately, it's not quite as innocent as it might sound. In fact, she even has a bit of a history with dosing people with Sleeping Draught. She herself had spiked cakes meant for Crabbe and Goyle with that very same Potion when she was only a _second year_. And only a year later, hadn't she laughed right along with Ginny at Mrs. Weasley's story of brewing a Love Potion? It had seemed funny then. 

Time has a way of changing one's perspective. 

Damn Mrs. Weasley anyway. And Love Potions and their derivatives, too, for that matter.  
  


She decides she's just trying to distract herself from waiting for the Slytherins, who'll undoubtedly arrive in a clutch, and she _would_ feel a bit better if Harry were there. Or even Ron, really. But not even Seamus or Dean have shown yet, they're probably still in the Infirmary, and she's feeling rather alone all by herself on the bench there. 

Exposed. 

She stares at Professor McGonagall's chair, more visible now that the Professor has stood to make notes on the board in preparation for class. From her seat in the middle of the bench, she can see the carving of Crooks perfectly and it calms her. Her hand reaches unconsciously for the phial hanging at her neck as she concentrates on the image of her familiar, and then she performs one of Professor Taylor's strange breathing exercises, and before long it's all done some good. 

Her timing is excellent, as the Slytherins filter in just then.  
  


Really, it's almost anticlimactic. 

The thing is, no one but Draco has any idea that the room has any kind of significance, certainly none other than it had had the week before, or that _her_ being there is in any way exceptional, and the result is they pay her no attention at all. The boys are rather preoccupied with the Serpents that had arrived this morning, and Theo's still trying to puzzle out what on earth he could have done to make his father proud ( _besides_ hexing Draco, which his father really shouldn't have any way to know about, or he's got some very big problems indeed). And true to his nature, he's more than a little nervous thinking about if _pleasing_ his father could possibly be a _good_ thing. Objectively, that is. That's far from a given... Or perhaps depends on one's definition of 'good'. His father's is questionable at best. 

The only one of them who knows what took place Friday is Draco, and he's almost dedicated himself to _not_ looking her way. Which having sat there dreading it the past several minutes, she now finds... annoying. 

Annoying beyond words. 

So now she sits there staring at him instead.  
  


There's a deep-seated reflex that alerts people that they're being observed. Even wizards have it. It doesn't take long before his eyes dart up, glancing around, and he notices she's scrutinising him. Unwaveringly. Hermione narrows her eyes in her most challengingly glare, looks very deliberately at the spot on the floor she'd last seen him sprawled on and then with a purely malevolent grin, allows her eyes to travel down to his crotch. 

That does the trick. 

Draco blushes heatedly and quickly turns away. It's comes as no surprise when he studiously avoids looking at her again for the rest of class. 

Hermione counts it as a victory. 

At least there's one.

* * *

  


Harry and Ron storm down the corridor at a dead run, small loaves of bread flying about their ears and Peeves hot on their heels. 

"Potty and Weasel would steal the bread from the mouths of babes..." Peeves is screeching up a storm, it comes all the easier as he doesn't actually need air in his non-lungs to do so. 

It's surprising how hard old bread can be, and Harry feels thoroughly pelted. Assailed from all sides, so to speak, although primarily the rear, logically enough. This wasn't quite how he had pictured his morning, but he can't say it comes as a total shock. He'd had a bad feeling ever since... Actually, scratch that, he's had a bad feeling for days now. 

As they throw themselves bodily around the next corner, Ron tries to bring a little humour to the situation, because _that_ was what it was lacking. _No doubt_. "So, what, I guess everyone else gets the 'y' from my name..." 

It doesn't help that it wouldn't have been funny were Harry _not_ being barraged with volleys of bread. As it is, it leaves him glaring at his best friend more intensely. 

Ron tries again, "I only wonder 'y'..." Alright, that was a little better. And Harry _almost_ cracks a smile, except just then Ron grabs his arm again and tugs him to one of those stairwells no one uses with a self-assured, "This way."

It might have worked, too, two quick turns to shake off the Poltergeist, except the stairwell wasn't empty and as they careen around the corner there's a heavy "Oof," and a flurry of scrolls that comes from neither of them.

It's followed by an inexplicable and theatrically winced, "Karma," that Harry doesn't bother trying to decipher when he realises who spoke. They've just flattened the Divination Professor every bit as surely as 'Hogwarts: A History' will do a number on a Flitterbloom bloom. Or is that blossom?

"Watch where you're going," she snaps at them, trying locate her glasses on the floor and settling for Harry's instead. 

He's insulted. There is _no way_ the two can be confused. Harry fumbles about until he locates hers and is about to suggest a trade when Ron replies, "I'm surprised you didn't see that coming."

Karma, it would seem, holds for Ron as well, as Trelawney's Deafening Charm has worn off, completely, and she heard that. 

Harry thinks there's a chance, with rapidly diminishing probability now that he looks at the ginger, that Ron _hadn't_ meant anything by that. Trelawney, naturally, doesn't 'see' it that way. 

Of course not.

* * *

  


"Class, kindly submit your homework scrolls and open your books to page 137," at the sound of her Tempus, Professor McGonagall's voice interrupts the students' conversations and everyone begins shuffling through their piles of books and papers for their homework and the class text. Everyone but Hermione, Ernie Macmillan and Theo that is, all three of whom already have their homework out and books open to the right chapter, if not the right page. 

Ernie shoots Nott a slightly superior smirk because the Slytherin actually had to turn two pages. It's hardly a wonder, with such inattention, that the boy hadn't made Prefect. Which naturally doesn't explain how Malfoy _had_ , as his book isn't even out yet. Or Weasley, for that matter, who's still missing. 

Hermione's side of the classroom is still pretty empty. It's clear now Dean won't be joining them, and Harry hasn't shown up either. She has no idea what could be keeping _him_. 

Scrolls go flying to McGonagall's desk, Banished, the Professor casts a quick spell to tally them and then turns to a certain blond sitting in the front row on the bench closest to the door. He's still noticeably busy searching through his book bag, his search becoming increasingly haphazard as he goes. 

"Mr. Malfoy? Where is your assignment?"

"I don't..." He rifles further furiously for a moment, spurred by her question and everyone's attention, but there's no help for it. It's just not there. It's more than a little infuriating, because he _knows_ he did it, and it may have been the _only_ thing he had to feel smug about lately, that he'd managed to get it done despite serving detention all weekend, breaking what felt like most, if not all, of the major bones in his body, being tormented by the school nurse, oh, and getting _fucking tortured_ by his Head of House-cum-godfather, how lovely, but he can't find it. It's... gone. 

"Well?" She asks, with that certain inflection that tends to stop students in their tracks. As worn down as Draco is this morning, it simultaneously succeeds and yet fails to really reach him. This would seem to be just another little tile in the mosaic of misery that has been the past few days; it's hardly worth taking notice.

He surrenders. What difference does one more thing make? "I can't seem to find it, Professor."

"And isn't that a shame. Well, there is much to be said for keeping one's papers tidy, Mr. Malfoy." Blaise in the row behind Draco does a reasonably good job trying not to laugh, but Theo and Tracey both know why he might be tempted and catch it all the same. _He'd_ only just had this conversation with Professor Snape yesterday. "Perhaps a little practice in tidying this evening under Mr. Filch's tutelage..."

Draco swallows hard and looks at his arm. He has three Serpents wrapped tightly around it. There's no way he'll be in any condition to serve detention tonight. The Slytherins shoot him sympathetic looks. Good luck not explaining _that_. With no options, Draco does the unthinkable, causing a few gasps and even more snickers, "I'm afraid this evening won't be an option. I'm, um, otherwise occupied..."

McGonagall's eyebrow shoots up, and the snickers cease. She considers using the same manoeuvre on him she had on _her_ three Quidditch players, scheduling his detention during their practice, except then they'd simply trade training times... "Well, I shouldn't like to interfere with your plans..." 

Seamus, now seated in the row behind Hermione can't quite stop his snort of laughter. That earns him a raised brow of his own, and he quickly gets the reflex back under control. "Very well, Saturday evening..."

Draco's voice sounds uncharacteristically small, "I already have detention then..."

"Wonderful. Would you care to save us all a little time and tell me _when_ it would be convenient for _you_ then?"

This sounds like a trap, but not answering also doesn't seem like an option. Draco finds he's actually sweating a little. He's appalled to think his Charm didn't hold. 

Blaise leans forward and softly hisses, "I'm doing detention Saturday afternoon..." 

Very tentatively, Draco volunteers, "I don't have detention yet on Saturday afternoon..."

"Perfect. You do now. Saturday afternoon it is then. Now if you would turn your attention to the book..."

* * *

  


"Running in the hallways, Mr. Weasley?" Trelawney rejoins, her irritation audible. "I 'see' you spending some time with Mr. Filch this Saturday afternoon..." Harry tries to stifle a groan. He's picturing having to tell the team he's earned them an early morning practice session on the weekend by virtue of this bit of stupidity. And _he's_ the captain. That's not embarrassing at all. Hell, he'd give any of them a right bollocking if they did this...

"Uh, no, Professor," Ron replies, and for a short moment Harry foolishly feels something like hope. 

Her brow wrinkles as both of her eyebrows shoot up, but Harry's glasses are ruining the effect more thoroughly than hers would have. She looks ridiculous. "No?" She asks. She _does not_ sound pleased. 

"Well, yes, actually, but not for you, I mean. Professor McGonagall already gave me detention then." Harry just scowls at him, forgetting for the moment that if Ron _hadn't_ had detention then, they _both_ certainly would have _now_. At least this way, rescheduling practice is still only Ron's fault...

"Ah, well then my sight remains clear..."

"It might be more so," Harry quietly suggests, extending her glasses towards her, "if you tried these instead?"

"Hmm. Ah. Much better, Mr. Potter. Nevertheless, things don't look good for you either." She returns his glasses, which at least gives him hope: things might not look good, but he'll settle for in focus. 

"No. No, I didn't think so." They generally don't look good for him when Trelawney's involved. In fact they tend to look rather grim... At least _he_ knows enough keep that thought to _himself_. He shoves his own glasses back into place and sets to gathering her scrolls. 

"Saturday evening then?" She takes her wand and Summons the parchments with an, "Accio. There. Also better."

"Yes, Professor," Harry agrees, both with the time for their detention and the use of the Summoning Charm. Ron doesn't look best pleased. Harry gives him a nudge. "Right, Ron? Saturday evening?"

Ron nods somewhat sullenly as he picks himself off the floor. "We really need to get moving, mate."

Harry manages not to ask him whose fault _that_ is. Only just.

* * *

  


"Potty! Weasel!" 

The delay seems to have given Peeves a chance to catch up. Bloody hell. 

They're in silent agreement about what to do about it, it's not like there's much choice, and take off running again. 

Ever so gleefully, Peeves chases them through the castle, lobbing a seemingly endless supply of brick hard bread at their heads. 

"Good practice for dodging Bludgers, yeah?" Ron quips, still trying to work his way back into Harry's good graces. Harry frankly can't be arsed with his overtures and just keeps on belting down the passage. 

Only Sybill's fluster and utter lack of willingness to attract the Poltergeist's attention - even slightly - allows them to escape a second detention, as they've demonstratively not learnt their lesson about running in the corridors in the least. Hooligans!

* * *

  


"Can we make his feathers a darker green?" Daphne Greengrass asks, gesturing at the Augurey Professor McGonagall has Transfigured on her desk. 

Ernie Macmillan, seated in the back row across the aisle from Daphne, snorts his opinion of that and whispers, "And how about turning his grey feathers silver while you are about it?"

"Oh!" Daphne half coos, "Can that even be done? Surely not real silver?"

"Do be quiet, Greengrass..." he mutters in reply, promptly drawing Blaise's, Theo's and Tracey Davis' ire who turn as one prepared to put the Head Boy resoundingly in his place, with wands if need be. 

It's not that they as a group don't happen to share Macmillan's opinion of Daphne, not at all. They, like Draco, think she's one of the weaker of their number, which makes her skill in Transfiguration surprising and frankly more than a little frustrating for many of those around her. It shouldn't _be_. It's anomalous, and at moments like these seems nonsensical. But there can be no doubt, she's actually pretty gifted. 

Still, they can't let Macmillan's attack slide. For one thing, it's a matter of principle. Daphne is one of _theirs_ , her unquestionably questionable priorities and inane questions aside. They settle their differences internally. Externally they present a united front and protect their own. It's one thing they've learnt and learnt well from their Head of House. 

For another, they're fairly certain, and correct, that Draco and even Theo regularly outperform that self-important gasbag Macmillan academically, and there's some resentment that the Hufflepuff was made Head Boy. There's a widely held conviction in their House that Macmillan's getting the spot is just one more example of the Headmaster's concerted anti-Slytherin fuckery. 

While it _isn't_ , not _this time_ , they'd _definitely_ be more than justified in questioning why no one can take a full course load without also taking Muggle Studies. Purely coincidentally, the course isn't exactly popular with the Snakes. 

Draco, for his part, is pretty sure poisoning and cursing his classmates as he had last year was probably what precluded him from the running for the Head Boy position, and can see a certain logic to that. That's if the fact he'd taken the Mark hadn't already been reason enough. He can't begin to imagine why he's even still a Prefect, to be honest, other than someone very transparently trying to maintain Severus' cover (the Death Eaters regularly have a good chuckle about that), or maybe trying to keep attention off Theo, and candidly Draco would be perfectly happy to have one less responsibility this year. They couldn't _pay_ him to be Head Boy. Well, and not just because he's ridiculously rich, either. Trying to repair those bloody trunks is taking up a great deal of his free time, which seems to be diminishing rapidly as the detentions keep piling up. 

Normally Draco, too, would leap to Daphne's defence against the stuffy sandy-blond, her insipidity notwithstanding, but between the Serpents on his arm and Granger's clear reminder of what happened to him there last night... Draco's got a lot of other things on his mind.  
  


"Thank you, Mr. Macmillan. That will be enough. I believe the question was directed at me," Minerva nips it in the bud and swallows her sigh. 

It's not the bickering that gets to her, although it grew old decades ago. It's the things that seem to really _matter_ to the students. There can be no question, Miss Greengrass is one of her most attentive and _enthusiastic_ students. She's there energetically scribbling down every word Minerva says right along with Mr. Macmillan, Mr. Nott and normally Madam Snape, although she's understandably preoccupied today. 

But what Miss Greengrass so _eagerly_ wants to know is 'does it come in a different colour?' Minerva has just brought a vase to life, and after all these years she still finds that a source of wonder, but _that's_ what apparently matters: the colour. Perhaps something to match the girl's dress robes... Still, it's preferable to repeating herself for a fifth and sixth time because Misters Finch-Fletchley and Finnigan haven't grasped the finer points. Again. 

She misses questions about the Transfigured creatures's sentience. Is it? Well, no, of course not. If it were, where would the sentience come from, and where would it go once she performs the Finite Incantatem and the Augurey becomes a vase again? Not that those aren't evening filling topics... 

Does it have a soul? Naturally that's even more absurd as a premise, but it's a great deal of fun to speculate. Are there even such things as souls? And if so, what _is_ a soul? Honestly, a bottle of elf wine or three greatly helps the discussion, and as such those conversations and musings are normally reserved for the dominion of apprenticeship or the early days of mastership. 

Still, every once in a while, the faculty indulges, both in wine and philosophical debate. Horace maintains souls most _definitely_ exist, battling for his standpoint valiantly and with a fairly convincing certainty, but he always looks guilty when he does. Oddly, his guilt sways her more than his arguments. 

Severus was a worthy replacement for Horace and used to debate such things with them hotly. He hasn't in recent years. Minerva now has her suspicions why that might be, and wishes she had tried harder to lure him from his shell. That she'd left him less alone with his burdens...  
  


And the only one of her students to care about anything other than simply being able to perform the Spell successfully for the N.E.W.T.s just wants to know if she can make it match her House colours... Some days she wonders why she ever wanted to be a Professor. 

And then she remembers her work at the Ministry and it becomes a good deal clearer. The prejudices. The _politics_... Never again. 

Now she actually _does_ sigh.  
  


Minerva is standing in front of the class absently petting the Transfigured bird on her desk, smoothing his feathers, and once again trying to explain the details of the Spell, and _no_ , sadly there's not very much to be done about colour, not without additional Transfigurations anyway, it _is_ an Augurey and not, say, a peacock, or parrot for that matter, when the door bursts open and her two truant students appear. She finds it particularly vexing, as they are members of her own House. 

Several members of staff have the suspicion that the Ravenclaws take advantage of Filius, bless his little heart, because he's their Head and goes soft on them, and it has given rise to some derogatory talk behind his back. And probably over his head, people being as they are. Naturally Pomona is every bit as soft, but the Hufflepuffs, one supposes equally naturally, don't seem to instrumentalise the exploitation of that weakness as the Eagles do. If one were tempted to go too easy on the little blighters, observing the pitying looks Filius receives - from students and faculty alike - has a way of sorting that. Quickly. 

Flagrant disrespect is something she will _not_ tolerate from _her_ students, and yet she suspects it's no coincidence that the boys had dared try this with _her_. There's always the hope one's Head of House won't wish to deduct House points as vigorously from their own charges. She's reasonably certain they wouldn't _dare_ try this with Severus, which only annoys her more. 

It might cheer her to know both boys had also been late to _his_ class only yesterday, but perhaps not quite as egregiously. On the other hand, _that_ knowledge would surely push her to having them spend all weekend practising the Tempus, culminating in submitting twenty-four inches on the history of the development of the Charm. In triplicate if need be; no Geminios allowed. 

She knows almost exactly when Mr. Weasley left the Infirmary; it had certainly been before _she_ herself had. He had _plenty_ of time to arrive punctually to class, had that been _anything_ like a priority for him. Quite clearly, it was _not_. 

"Mr. Weasley, Mr. Potter," Professor McGonagall greets them as all heads turn to watch. Few things are more fascinating than observing one's classmates squirm in the talons, claws or coils, depending on the House, of an appropriately annoyed Professor. "Still having issues with your Tempuses I see. Shall I demonstrate? One performs it like so..." She waves her wand in deliberately slow measure, the red tinge from Ron's ears spreading rapidly clear down the back of his neck and disappearing into his unusually tight and itchy collar as she does. 

The boys make their way silently past her desk to what seems to now be their side of the classroom, judging by where the others are already seated. Minerva is about to take ten points from each of them, probably far less than they deserve, but she _had_ just assigned Mr. Weasley detention, when the boys reach the bench where Madam Snape is seated. 

The young woman is staring at Minerva's chair again. The Transfiguration Mistress believes to understand that the witch derives some comfort from Severus' carvings; she thinks perhaps it's the reminder of his actions on her behalf, not having discovered Crooks' likeness yet. Initially Minerva found it disconcerting, because Madam Snape kept her eyes fixed on the spot whether she could see the chair or not. When she couldn't, it was because Minerva had been bold enough to sit - in her own chair of all places - and was bodily blocking her view. It's an odd feeling to have someone constantly trying to stare _through_ her. Purely by chance, Minerva finds herself inclined to teach more of the lesson while standing today. 

It also doesn't escape her notice that Madam Snape is the only one who doesn't turn her head as the boys approach. 

It's no coincidence the benches were three wide. When she had made the adjustments to her classroom Monday morning, Minerva had hoped the boys would sit with their friend, flanking her, providing some moral support. That hope had only been magnified this morning when the young witch struggled to explain her strategical _need_ to attend class, to sit there, putting on a brave face, all while looking a hair's breadth from a nervous collapse.  
  


Well she's looking a far sight more collected now. 

Naturally, the extra dose of Calming plays a major role... 

Demonstrating some of the same techniques she'd planned for the Slytherins, but unexpectedly hasn't needed with them yet, Hermione does her level best to ignore Ron. She's still mad for all the established reasons and everything about her screams indifference, except for the fact she's behaving _completely_ unnaturally, which should signal to a clearer mind just how affected she is. 

Very.  
  


Ron is in an almost equally poor mood, but probably for _less valid_ reasons. Sometimes that kind of _is_ a contest, except that's a slippery slope. Is only the _most_ wounded justified in feeling hurt? Should they stop class and take a survey of the damage? Merlin, objectively Malfoy might just win at the moment; where would _that_ leave them? 

Does the injured party need to be blameless? At least then it wouldn't be Malfoy. But would that be case specifically, as relates to the particular injury, or _generally_ , because heavens help Hermione then... Or is the hurt only legitimate if the injured party is _sympathetic_? And to _whom_?

Or do they need to see who's the most wounded in the entire castle first? _He's_ probably sleeping in the Infirmary just now, and would have no patience for this sort of thinking were he awake; he's also not exactly sympathetic. But then that all too simple assignment of the title to Severus ignores everyone else's history. _And_ their individual abilities to cope. Wouldn't that be more relevant? And how should it be assessed?

It's fair to say most people in Ron's shoes wouldn't be particularly happy. His best friend and - quite frankly - his _crush_ has married the person he hates _most_ in the whole world - with no warning and without even _telling_ him. What does _that_ say about their friendship? Not that _that's_ what he cares about most, not even close, but it's a safer objection to, well, not _voice_ , obviously, but to think to oneself, surely... Whether or not his feelings are reciprocated in no way diminishes his hurt, only his right to be offended. But for her to marry someone who has tormented him for _years_? 

Naturally it doesn't matter in that moment that he doesn't begin to know the true meaning of the word 'torment', or how much of that perceived torment was _deserved_ , which is convenient as he's incapable of recognising it anyway. 

Understandably, he's not a happy wizard. 

But on the other hand, it's probably safe to assume a great many people in Ron's predicament might ask the pertinent questions before simply acting on their feelings. 'Why?' is always a good place to start. 

Unfortunately, Ron is impulsive and highly emotional, and _that_ will prove beyond his capabilities at the moment. He doesn't have the advantage of Calming Draughts in his system, nor wiser voices in his ear counselling him not to give in to those emotions, to keep his head or hold his tongue. It certainly hasn't helped that when all else fails, he usually seeks comfort in food, and food has been anything _but_ comforting today. 

He has got quite a number of people he's angry with, and that number keeps growing. He's certain his mum's... he's at a total loss for words. _That Howler_ pretty much guarantees him a life of misery, starting next class with Snape. The interactions with Dean, Wainscott, Hermione, Trelawney, McGonagall and Peeves, for fuck's sake, just this morning alone, add to his lengthening list of reasons to hate the world, and it's only _first period_. 

And his bollocks feel like they're in a bloody vice. A _scratchy_ vice. That's hardly the best starting point. Well, and all that other stuff. 

Hermione sits there, clearly just peachy, ignoring him for all she's worth, clutching some stupid necklace he can't recall seeing before. For fuck's sake, is that a miniature phial? That's as dumb as Lav's 'sweetheart' necklace... And then with a sinking, _burning_ feeling he considers why she might be wearing a _phial_ , of all things... Bloody hell! 'Mione's wearing _his jewellery_ now?! Which is precisely when he spots the ring... 

The _last_ thing he's going to do is sit _next to_ her. 

Now, if she'd just be smart and shove over, he _might_ take a seat in her row and leave room between them for Harry. He's sort of used to acting as a buffer for them anyway.  
  


But she isn't moving. 

Hermione sits there staring at the carving of Crooks, and she isn't going to budge, not an inch. 

So Ron does the perfectly logical. He moves to Seamus' row. 

Seamus quickly plonks his books down on the seat next to him to reserve it for Dean when he gets out of the Infirmary, he can't stay there forever, and Ron recognises that would leave no room for Harry, so he keeps going without discernible hesitation to the third row and takes one of the two empty seats next to Fay. 

Minerva's lips thin into a very tight line and she turns to glower at Mr. Potter's back as he now draws abreast of Madam Snape's row.  
  


Harry's in a weird place. The talk with Ginny has stirred up some things that leave him acutely ill at ease, running all over the castle with Ron didn't help. He's coming down from his adrenaline rush and feels all out of sorts. Or maybe he's still in flight mode... Either way, he feels kind of wretched. And honestly? He doesn't _really_ want to sit next to 'Mione either. 

He thinks... He _senses_ he needs to have a talk, a _real_ talk with 'Mione, especially after what he'd said to her Saturday. Except he obviously can't do that there. She's staring off into space, ignoring him. It never occurs to him she's scared of their public rejection, he just assumes she's still angry and he can't fix that now and maybe shouldn't try to force it right at the moment somewhere she isn't free to react... 

It's like this: Hermione gets upset, and there's no talking with her. Which isn't to say there's talking to Ron when _he's_ upset with Harry, but he _isn't_ just now, not after he got Harry a detention and their mad dash from Peeves together. Quite the opposite. And 'Mione, well, she's far more likely to forgive him than Ron is. _Far_ more likely. Like bunches more. He can't think of a time she _hadn't_. And much sooner, too. And she's far _less_ likely to cause any kind of scene in a _class_ of all places than Ron is. _Way_ less likely. And clearly she _doesn't_ want him next to her. And Ron _does_. 

Ron's in the back row, clapping his hand on the spot that's empty beside him, in the universally recognised sign for, 'Sit here. This seat's free, and your company is _wanted_.' He didn't exactly think that through, it's mostly a reflex, but he's a fundamentally insecure boy, and there's safety in numbers. If Harry joins him, it proves _Ron_ isn't in the wrong there, doesn't it? And so he sits there, clapping on the bench, effectively calling Harry over. 

For Harry, it's all pretty plain what he needs to do... He'll sit next to Ron and keep him sweet. He'll avoid 'Mione and the blow up, most likely Ron's, or possible huff, and that would be hers, that could occur if Harry didn't. If that happens to mesh with his preferences, well, he can hardly help that. And then he needs to find her later and apologise for Saturday somehow... 

Except apparently he _really_ needs to apologise for whatever happened Friday night instead, and he doesn't really think they make a greeting card for that. He's certainly never seen one at Boots or Scrivenshaft's, which would seem to indicate Muggles and wizards alike are equally at a loss in this sort of situation. 

He has no idea how to go about that at all...

His stomach sinks and his breakfast feels like it's turning to lead in his guts. Ah. Alchemy. And he only knows that because of 'Mione...

Feeling like a heel, and with a horrible sense that he's just fucking up _more_ but then again not at all certain how he could _not_... Harry gives a sort of helpless shrug that Hermione pretends not to see and follows Ron and takes the available seat next to him in the back row with Fay.  
  


This would be one of those times when _timing_ is all important. Fundamentally, Hermione needed, or at least _wanted_ , their support, and once again, they weren't there for her. She wonders why that still comes as a surprise. Long after the hurt diminishes, what remains is a sense of distrust... Unreliability. To count on them is to court pain and disappointment. It'll be a while before Hermione has any desire to really _honestly_ try to talk things through with either of them. And because _they_ have no idea how to sort it, they'll be far too happy to stick to their strategy of avoidance. It's worked _so_ well so far.  
  


Minerva just glares at the boys. She permits herself a quick glance at Madam Snapes, alone in the front row, and thanks her lucky stars that the young woman isn't reduced to tears. For half a second she contemplates taking House points and realises she can't begin to decide how many. Right now she's mad enough to take them all. But the boys are well within their rights, a point deduction isn't even a _legitimate_ thing to do, and she also doesn't feel the House deserves to suffer for this.

However... She hadn't quite gotten to punishing them for their tardiness yet... 

"Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley," if she sounded terrifying before, she's achieved Dementor class now. Assuming they could speak that is. Still, the comparison stands, and it crosses more than a couple of minds as the class listens with rapt attention. "Detention. Perhaps you'd care for a remedial Tempus practice session? Mr. Filch will expect you, _punctually_ , Saturday evening." 

Harry groans and tries not to think of all the ways he wants to hex Ron. Ron, for his part, bows to the inevitable and informs their Head, "Yes, Professor, um, he _will_... But that's because Trelawney..." 

" _Professor_ Trelawney," Minerva corrects, most acidly. 

"Yeah, well, we've already got detention then." Seamus can't suppress his bark of laughter. It earns him a frown from McGonagall, but nothing more. She's far too busy being incensed with Ron and Harry to pay him or anyone else much mind. Students seem to develop an instinct that allows them to take at least slight advantage of that. 

"Of course you do. And I believe you already have detention Saturday _afternoon_ , Mr. Weasley..." She's begun massaging her temple, something a few astute students will have noticed she does when particularly piqued. 

"Yes, Professor." 

"Splendid. Well, Mr. Weasley, we're trying something new today. Perhaps you'd be so good as to just name a time that would suit you?"

"Professor?" His voice cracks with his uncertainty. Weasley sounds far too much like Malfoy, and Blaise and Seamus _both_ laugh now, only to turn and gawp at each other, equally sure they should _never_ be in agreement. _Ever_. 

Ron sits there like a Mooncalf caught in a Lumos, and Harry tries to get it sorted. He's pretty sure this isn't just about being too late to class, and has the hint of an inkling they've disappointed McGonagall in addition to 'Mione while they were at it. "Sunday evening?" He suggests, thinking at least that way it won't interfere with Quidditch practice. 

"Perfect. Well, that system is working beautifully. But perhaps you should make an effort to see we don't need to make that a regular thing."

"No, Professor," they both chime in reply and Minerva once again directs the students' attention to the Augurey on her desk. It's a good thing it was a double Transfiguration class today, as she seems to have spent nearly half the period negotiating detention schedules. It's a wonder she gets anything done.

* * *

  


It hardly comes as a surprise that Minerva's repeating herself, yet again. Misters Finch-Fletchley and Finnigan are still struggling with some aspects of the Spell, and of course Misters Potter and Weasley have to catch up. The better students are getting bored and their attention drifts.  
  


Hermione, naturally, is amongst them. She hasn't spent as much time reading ahead and revising as she usually does in the past few days, but she understands the lesson and they're just retracing ground already covered, thoroughly, and she hasn't the patience for it, especially not _now_. 

It's hard to explain, but in some ways her recent experiences have robbed her of patience for... sometimes it feels like _everything_. As if she just has no patience _whatsoever_ anymore. And it would probably be worse without the Calming Draughts. She feels like she's fine, superficially, but the minute something even ever so slightly begins to tax her nerves... 

Like right at the moment. She can't help thinking how the lesson is all pretty straight forward stuff, and worse yet, it's on a loop that will repeat until the dawdlers catch up or Professor McGonagall believes they'll be able to do so on their own with just the book and a homework assignment. Right now, that doesn't seem likely. For all Professor Flitwick lets himself get distracted onto tangents, she has to admit it's sometimes nice to get more of the bigger picture, not just the _practical_ applications but the _theoretically possible_. To understand not just the Spell but the magic in its context. 

She tries to calm herself, to focus her attention - she most definitely _isn't_ sulking, although that's probably a very close thing and only thanks to a Potion - but she can't muster the, well, patience, obviously, to try any of Professor Taylor's techniques, although she grudgingly has to admit they had worked before... 

She watches Professor McGonagall repeat herself for the fifth time with the patience of a saint, and Hermione wonders if it must get boring for the instructors always doing the same old _easy_ things, because for them it must be, over and over again, year in, year out, the material all superficial, devoid of depth, and nothing new... She doesn't think she could do it. 

She wonders how Professor Snape does it. She suspects the answer is that he _has to_ to maintain his cover. That seems a little sad. Well, in addition to the danger attached to the role of course. But a job that leaves you feeling stifled on top of everything else can't be pleasant... Typical of most people her age, she doesn't pause to consider that a great many jobs leave a great many people rather unfulfilled. With luck, she may never discover that fact for herself. 

Still trying to distract herself from her general state of annoyance, which flares all the more when Ron asks a stupid question that's already been covered twice, admittedly before he got to class, which isn't to say he shouldn't have been punctual like everyone else... Well, except Harry, clearly... She turns her thoughts inwards and listens to her bond for a while, which is how she comes to make a few discoveries.  
  


The first thing, which she finds really intriguing, is she can feel so much more across their bond than usual, and isn't 'usual' a funny thing? How quickly things change... But the feelings are oddly somehow both more and less, all at the same time. Sort of like having more colours in her pencil case, but all of them are pastels. It's hard to define, which only makes it more interesting for her to focus on, which she does for some time as she sits there running her fingers over the phial hanging on its chain at her chest and staring, much less intently now, at the carving of Crooks. 

She's sure, she feels a much greater range of things as he sleeps, but it has none of the intensity of his waking moments; this feels like a bleached copy, a faded photograph, somehow less real. When the Professor's awake, she suspects, he Occludes all the time, or somewhat anyhow, which must be what limits that range. Or he has some other means of suppressing what the bond relays, although Occlumency fits the facts quite nicely in addition to what she knows of his skills. And apparently he can't do that when he sleeps, or at least he isn't right now. She's not sure if the Draught they gave him makes a difference there or not, but she decides Occluding or something very like it is the explanation otherwise. 

She can also tell he has nightmares. Merlin, he has horrible dreams. A lot of them. She doesn't know their content, of course not, she can't read his mind, but she _feels_ what he does. They must keep stopping and starting, it's an unrelenting cycle of anxiety, mounting tension, and then a sharp spike of fear, and then the relief when it's finished is extremely short lived before it starts all over again. She wonders how he gets any rest. It occurs to her the dreams were less intense, less horrifying when she was holding his hand... Maybe Madam Pomfrey was right and the touch had helped him. 

The dreams seem to be coming fast and thick now, and she vaguely recalls that's supposed to be true for the later stages of sleep. Thinking back to when she woke this morning, she hadn't been able to feel nearly as much from him. She suspects it's a sign the Draught has nearly run its course, although there's always a chance it behaves differently than natural sleep does. Still, she doubts it. 

If she makes it back to the Infirmary before he wakes, maybe she can test that hypothesis. She should be able to see his eyelids moving for REM sleep. And she can experiment with touch. She's feels a stab of guilt at that, she's not sure if she _should_... There can't be too much wrong with just holding his hand so he sleeps better. Can there? But she knows he'd never sit still for such experimentation were he awake. 

She wonders if she can influence his dreams now, if she just tries to remain calm and think positively... Without even noticing, she applies one of Professor Taylor's techniques. There are advantages to practising things repeatedly until they are ingrained. 

Hermione has no proof, of course not, but she does have a sense that the cycles of the nightmares are growing shorter, never becoming as bad. She likes to think she's helping. That it makes a difference, for the better, if she can get her mood better under control. She wonders if she could somehow get the Loyalty Vow to work for her. She could do this to help him, and the Vow could facilitate that in some fashion...

And that's how she ends up spending a good portion of class. 

Minerva is kind enough not to call on her or chastise her for her woolgathering. She'd offered for the young woman to miss class altogether, and she isn't disturbing anyone sitting there chasing her thoughts. Minerva just lets her be.  
  


"It's such a shame we couldn't make a Fwooper instead," Miss Greengrass once again contributes to the proceedings. "They're so much prettier."

"Absolutely, that's an _excellent_ idea, Greengrass. If you want to be driven mad as a loon the first time it opens its mouth, that is." Ernie rolls his eyes. 

"Are you sure she hasn't tried that before?" Terry Boot rejoins from the second row. "It would explain so much."

The Slytherins are about to kick off again, their attention also waning with the lesson when an idea occurs to Ernie which interrupts them. He raises his hand and when McGonagall calls on him asks, "If it _had_ been a Fwooper, instead of an Augurey, how does one handle the Charms to silence it? Would the Spell need to be cast in tandem? Or is it not a real bird with all its usual properties, and silencing it wouldn't be necessary?"

 _Finally_ something meaty, an interesting question, almost insightful even, and Minerva has to disappoint them. What a shame. "That's a good question, Mr. Macmillan. I'm afraid that it's not possible to perform the Charm simultaneously with the Transfiguration. If you wish to Transfigure an object into a Fwooper, in addition to the correct Spell for doing so, you would need the standard hearing protection for proper handling of the creatures upon Transfiguring it before you could apply the Silencio to it."

Finch-Fletchley chuckles and whispers something to Hannah Abbott about, "Health and Safety", who smiles back, and some detail in the back of Hermione's mind demands attention as hers subsequently shifts back to subject discussed. 

"Is that true?" She asks, a mite distractedly and without raising her hand first. 

Minerva raises an eyebrow in surprise but honestly isn't bothered by the interjection. If anything, she's amused, especially when the young woman pinks drastically and begins to apologise, "I'm sorry, that's not at all what I meant..."

Seamus laughs from the row behind her, and even Harry begins to smirk.

"By all means, please continue, Madam Snape," Minerva encourages, a slight smile on her lips, but the appellation is sufficient to make Ron frown and Harry stop smiling as it brings the facts of the past few days clearly back into their thoughts. 

"It's just, healers can Conjure scripts, I don't know if that's what they're formally called, but pieces of paper with some text on it, instructions for the apothecary. I'm not sure how it's done, but I was thinking, that seems similar to what Ernie suggested. Conjuring the paper is straightforward enough, and obviously not on the same level as Transfiguring a life form, but wouldn't the writing be a second Charm performed simultaneously? Or is it one compound Spell, a Spell with a modifier, like Oculus Reparo?"

And moments like these are _precisely_ why Minerva enjoys teaching. Lovely.

The Transfiguration Mistress has only a vague notion of the Spell the young witch mentioned. She has spent almost her entire life in the wizarding world here at Hogwarts where she had first Horace and then Severus meeting her Potions needs, and Poppy had always just told them what was required or organised it herself. On the very rare occasions Minerva had needed medical help that went beyond what the staff in the castle could provide, she'd been in no shape to need such a script to visit an apothecary. In those circumstances she hadn't left St. Mungo's _at all_. But she's seen the Spell cast on occasion. Truthfully, she hadn't given it much thought as her exposure to it was so limited, but now... 

Madam Snape is correct. It's an intriguing avenue to pursue. 

"That's an excellent point. I'm not certain what comprises that Spell, either, but I agree completely that it's food for thought. Why don't I look into it and tell you what I discover?" Minerva is actually smiling now, wondering what the chances are that the witch won't also look into it herself. 

Given the lengthy list of things Hermione feels she needs to research about her current situation, it's nowhere near as likely as it would have been a week ago.

* * *

  


McGonagall's Tempus chimes and most of the class rises. More than half of the students are also in N.E.W.T.s Potions, and _none_ of them have any desire to be late. 

Harry knows full well, _all too well_ , that 'Mione won't be joining them for Potions anymore. There's hardly any point in waiting for her, and the discussion that needs to take place probably shouldn't happen in crowded hallways between classes. And probably not with Ron there either, he thinks, shooting his friend a glance... Not that he honestly has any plans to have _that_ talk with her anytime soon. But still...

Especially eager not to land yet _another_ detention this morning by being tardy yet _again_ , and particularly nervous about the possibility Ginny had suggested that 'Mione or Snape might have gotten Howlers from her mum, Harry grabs Ron and sort of pulls him along after him. Turnabout and all that. Plus he can't see any sense in making Snape angrier.  
  


Ron knows full well, _all too well_ , that his mum _did_ send Snape a Howler, and he's having a hard time overcoming his reluctance to ever set foot in that class again. Right now he's seriously contemplating just dropping it, not that it would Snape-proof his existence, but it should help. That seems a perfectly sensible response to the past twenty-four hours. 

Except if he dropped Potions, he couldn't become an Auror. 

Briefly he tries to remember why he even wanted to be one... Then he looks at Harry and tries weighing how he'd feel if his friend went on to become an Auror without him... Which is pretty much how he got there in the first place, he supposes. 

Honestly, he can't see Harry making it in Potions if Ron doesn't. There's no question, Snape hates Harry even more. Ron might even still be safe there with Harry deflecting most of his wrath. 

But just in case, he wonders if Fred and George could use an extra wand at the store...

Without a single glance in Hermione's direction, he follows Harry from the room.  
  


Minerva understands a lot about the interpersonal dynamics between students. That's not really her problem. The problem is she's honestly too old and has seen too many students pass through her classes to pay close attention or really care all that much any more. It's not callous indifference but natural fatigue. At some point, it all became a bit of a blur. 

It's the downside to experience. But just that experience seems to _prove_ that no matter _how_ crucial the children seem to think things are at the time, somehow they all muddle through and survive. 

That's not actually true, especially not at Hogwarts, but it is _incredibly_ easy to come to think it is. The damage children inflict on one another can leave scars that last a lifetime. But those scars are easy to overlook from her position, and she often has over the decades. 

But once in a while, something draws her attention, and when she looks, really looks, she sees many things with a clarity most might miss. She sees Madam Snape steadily not looking at her friends as they make to leave the room. And Minerva notices _them_ carefully not looking the young woman's way. She knows the significance of fairly insignificant things. Not necessarily the extent of the _damage_ they cause, that ability was lost when she stopped taking students as seriously because of their inherent youth, but she understands that small actions can have more profound meanings. And she understands the importance, the _power_ of appearances. 

Still thoroughly disappointed in the boys and more than a little angry, before those two can even reach the witch's row and things become obvious, she calls the young woman over. "Madam Snape? If you have a moment?"

Minerva pretends to wish to speak to her about the question she'd raised on casting a Charm during a Transfiguration. It's a gesture, meant to allow everyone to pretend something else entirely was taking place, and it provides Hermione with some consolation. 

It's not that she's not leaving class with her friends because they apparently hate each other. Once yet again. Nor is she not leaving with them because she somehow married the instructor and had to drop the course. No, nothing nearly so dramatic. She's merely having a perfectly commonplace chat with a Professor about some of the more esoteric aspects of Spell work. It's all very normal. 

And so they stand there until the others all have left, ostensibly deep in discussion, speaking about things neither one of them actually cares about just then or will remember after the fact. But the ladies put on a cracking good show.

* * *

  


A few of the Ravenclaws hang back, lingering, trying to hear what the witches have to say. Students, at least those so inclined, also develop some impressive skills that let them know something is afoot with their classmates. The Ravenclaws aren't wrong that the pretext for the conversation is purely a charade, but it contains nothing remotely salacious, boringly so, and Padma, who has far less interest in gossip anyway, is beginning to get antsy. She starts making impatient noises about getting to Potions too late and not wanting to make Professor Snape angry. 

Seamus passes the group just as she does, and helpfully tells them if class isn't cancelled outright then they have a substitute, because Snape was still in the Infirmary as of two hours ago. 

And if he had stopped there, it might have been fine, but the only other information he had was what Wainscott had supplied as to _why_ , and when Boot asks "What for?", Seamus unfortunately answers.

  



	70. 11 11j Tuesday - Coping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hermione, the Bloody Baron, Minerva, Albus, Ron, Harry, Peeves, Crookshanks, Irma Pince, Ernie Macmillan, Padma Patil, Tracey Davis, Terry Boot, Morag MacDougal, Michael Corner, Blaise Zabini, Theo Nott, Draco, Filch, Hafsa Devi, Severus_

As the last student files out of the Potions classroom, Albus leans back in the instructor's chair and lets out a satisfied sigh. He hadn't made too bad a job of filling in for Severus if he says so himself. And so he does.

"Well done, Albus." 

It's not as though Severus was likely to praise him for it. No, he'd probably just point out it's what _he_ does day in and out and tell Albus not to let it go to his head... The man is preternaturally gloomy. Positively _morose_. Well, negatively... All the same. 

Still, there may be some justification in that, given he'd ended in the Infirmary yet again. The poor lad really does have some of the worst luck... 

And doesn't _that_ thought completely ignore the role Albus had played in making it so both yesterday and over twenty years ago. 

The Headmaster flexes his injured hand, trying to massage some feeling - other than pain - back into it. It's getting worse. He'd missed most of breakfast dealing with it. He speculates that he'll have to miss lunch as well if he needs to be fit enough to manage the Potions classes for the day. It can't be helped. 

Of course, his morning hadn't been improved a whit by the Howler from Mr. Smith. Senior, that is. Just as well he was in his office at the time. He doesn't enjoy receiving those in the Great Hall any more than the next witch or wizard. Not that he _enjoys_ receiving them in private, either, but less so in front of the entire school, obviously. 

It's interesting that Mrs. Devi hadn't sent him one. Gryffindors. Good people. He can count on them. He'll never understand how Smith, Senior _or_ Junior for that matter, ended up in Hufflepuff. He fancies they should have been in Slytherin, but knows Severus would disagree heartily. Deep down, Albus has a hunch, if just for the fact of the Howler alone, there's probably some truth to that, but it's more fun to claim otherwise. Hufflepuff really _is_ exceptionally good about accepting those who fit nowhere else.  
  


Typically pleased with himself for his work with the class, and perhaps bolstering himself for the next, he pops a lemon sherbet in his mouth in reward. 

It had helped, of course, _greatly_ , that the Potions Master had left him such meticulous notes. He supposes they were detailed enough that presumably Argus Filch could have managed the material, not that he, as a Squib, would have been able to brew a Potion himself, but that wasn't the point. 

As if by magic, and right on cue, Filch enters the room at just that moment. Truthfully, there _is_ magic involved, but it has far more to do with Albus knowing the movements of those in the castle. He knew Argus had been waiting patiently outside the room before class even ended. The elderly caretaker is holding something in his hand that seems to be, yes, smoking... _That's_ never disturbing... _Always_ a good sign. 

He sighs. "Argus? Dare I ask?"

"Yes, Sir. You requested that we screen the Professor's wife's mail." Filch jerks his head towards Severus' office door and Albus nods for him to continue. "This would be today's take then." He holds his arm out towards the Headmaster, displaying a Howler that's clearly in the process of becoming increasingly less stable now that it has reached its destination. On occasion, less frequently of late, but still, there's method to Albus' madness. Having a Squib take receipt of the Howler had probably been the only thing that kept it from exploding before now. Once delivered, the things aren't exactly known to sit about patiently awaiting opening. 

"Thank you, Argus. I appreciate your bringing this all the way down here." The scruffy man brightens at the words of thanks, a good indication of how rarely he hears any. "Just set it on the desk, if you would... I'll see about making other arrangements, but it was good of you to take care of this this morning for me." Albus rises as he speaks and escorts the caretaker from the room.

He hasn't long before the seventh year N.E.W.T. class arrives, but the time should be sufficient. He does a quick double check on the location of his target, it's as expected, takes the Howler gingerly between thumb and forefinger of his good hand, and then making use of the Headmaster's privileges, Apparates from behind the closed door of Severus' office to an empty alcove right off of Minerva's classroom.

* * *

  


As the last of her classmates disappears from view, Hermione scrapes together the courage to ask Professor McGonagall for a favour. It's not the favour itself that requires courage, it's the admission she's making by asking it. 

"Professor, I was hoping you might be willing to write me a note for Madam Pince? Giving me permission to do research in the Restricted Section..."

With a wince, Minerva remembers how she'd taken Irma to task Saturday morning when she thought the young woman had been savaged by one of the Librarian's books. Hardly optimal, no question about it. Just one more thing Albus has to answer for. Well, there's no changing it now. 

She summons a parchment and has her quill in hand, but pauses. Unlike _some_ colleagues, Professors Taylor and Lockhart spring instantly to mind, she's no fool. Minerva requires a few more details. "What would you be investigating?"

Hermione bites her lower lip hard enough that it goes pale beneath her teeth. She swallows, visibly, and then also swallows her pride. "I need to do some research on bonds. And I'm quite certain the material I need won't be in the regular section."

Minerva, to her credit, blinks only once. 

Obviously, as the witch is bonded and the bond can't be _undone_ , it isn't constructive to point out that it would have made a _great_ deal more sense to have done that _prior_ to the bonding. _That_ fact, however, rarely stops people from saying as much. But the young woman's expression more than conveys that she herself is only too aware that the research comes belatedly, and Minerva has all too clear an idea of how traumatised she may have been after the attack Friday. She really can't fault her. 

Minerva considers again how Albus was able to manoeuvre the young Gryffindor into such a thing. There can be no shame attached to her for consenting to the bonding; Merlin knows, he'd somehow managed to bully Severus into it, too. Albus can be quite a force of nature, the Headmaster can. It's hard to resist him when he's set his mind to making a thing so. The concern also visible on Madam Snape's face has the Transfiguration Mistress beginning to write almost at once. 

"There," she says, handing over the bit of parchment. "That should be sufficient. 

"If you need another, don't hesitate to ask. Or anything else, for that matter." Her student finally relaxes a little as she tucks the paper into a pocket, and raises her eyes to meet Minerva's gaze. 

"You did very well, Madam Snape," Minerva is intent on assuring her. "I think you accomplished what you set out to in class today." For the blink of an eye, Hermione thinks she means with regards to the lesson plan, but something about the set of the older woman's eyes... Her meaning becomes clear in a flash. 

Hermione teeters on the brink of panicking, ever so briefly, but the tone reaches her instead, pulling her back to safety. Minerva proceeds, "I don't think a single person in that class would have had reason to believe this room held any meaning for you beyond the usual. I was very proud of you."

Hermione has to swallow hard again, a lump seems to have been Conjured in her throat, and thanks her Head of House, probably more for the words of encouragement than the library permission slip, and heads out into the now empty hallway.

* * *

  


Hermione hasn't gone far when she hears a laugh from an alcove in front of her that's all too familiar. 

"Potty and Weasel's witch! Where are the Weasel and Potty?" Her wand is in her hand in an instant. She can feel her muscles tense involuntarily, her shoulders rise practically to her ears and her stomach drops, before she gets it all back under control and forces herself to approach the niche. 

She peers into it, and sure enough, there's Peeves, and he comes bobbing out to face her, becoming more solid as he does. Only then does she notice that the sound of 'the Weasel' had apparently triggered something very visceral in her and she's actually _relaxing_ upon spotting the Poltergeist. Which is just _wrong_. She files it away for later, but concludes it came from hearing so much about 'the Weasel' Friday evening. Just _perfect_. 

Well, Ron's beginning to elicit that gut-turning response just _as is_ after his performance, or lack thereof, the past several days. If he keeps this up, the events from Friday won't have any bearing on her reaction at all. 

She's trying to decide if she should simply hold still and accept whatever abuse Peeves means to dish out, really what difference does it make anymore, she _was_ heading back to quarters and could change if need be... Or if running was likely to do any good. She suspects not. She can't outrun him, and it would just label her as prey. _That_ fact is well recognised on her end, and serves nicely as a metaphor for how she's conducted herself this morning. Maybe it's begun to sink in. 

Or perhaps the Draughts are suppressing her instinct to panic. 

And so she stands there, turning to more fully face the Poltergeist when a coarse whisper whips through the corridor, "Peeves!"

Witch and spirit alike freeze at the sound. Then she turns, and with a great rattling of chains, the Bloody Baron appears behind her. "Your Bloodiship, Sir!" The Poltergeist snaps to attention. Hermione follows suit. 

"Leave the witch alone."

"Just for the moment, your Baronship?" Peeves sounds hopeful, and Hermione can see him shifting what appears to be... a loaf of bread from hand to hand. At least it's not a pot of ink. Of course that's the sort of thinking that comes from someone who hasn't yet been beaned with terribly stale bread and has momentarily forgotten that a Tergeo sorts ink stains fairly well. 

"Leave the witch alone!" The Baron commands more firmly, drawing closer. His voice never rises above his usual whisper, but it carries clearer than most shouts. Hermione could swear she feels it in her marrow. 

"All day?" Peeves sounds less hopeful, but it doesn't keep him from wheedling. 

"All year," comes the decisive hiss. 

Hermione thinks Peeves might be... pouting. Isn't _that_ a thing?

"Fine, but only because you asked so nicely, your Bloodiness." Hermione is fairly certain there was no asking involved. "But make her tell me where Weasel and Potty went," he whines, still hoping to get something out of this. 

"You were too late, Peeves. You have missed them. No one values punctuality anymore..." It's the strangest thing. He's a ghost, a clearly _bloodied_ ghost, complete with terrifying rattling chains and all, and yet as he says it, he reminds Hermione of nothing more than her late grandfather, before he was late, that is, moaning about the youth of today. It's very familiar, and it puts a reflexive smile on her face. 

Actually, they might have more in common now that her grandfather has passed, but then he isn't a ghost... To her knowledge. 

"Leave her alone," he commands again, now hovering in the space beside Hermione. 

"It's alright," she volunteers. "They went to Potions." 

With a cackle of unimpeded mirth, Peeves does an about face and whisks off down the hallway. 

"You did not have to tell him a _thing_ ," the Baron tries to explain to her. "I would have handled him." She thinks he sounds a little affronted.

"I'm sure you would have, Sir. But that seemed easier," she answers. 

The Baron continues to glide down the hallway in the Poltergeist's wake for a little ways, and then stops and turns towards her, apparently waiting. For... something. She hesitates for a moment, not quite sure what he expects of her, and then he makes it easier, "Come." 

That's all it takes. She closes ranks, falling in alongside him, and he glides next to her as she makes her way back to her quarters in the dungeons. 

Once again he secures his chains tightly, silencing them as he escorts the little witch so as not to rattle her as well. Ha! 

"He will not be pleased when he discovers you have lied," he tries to make her see sense. The young, especially the non-Slytherins, they seem to understand so little of their world and the way it works. It's a wonder he can still find the patience for them. 

"But I didn't lie," she assures him. 

"You... revealed where your friends could be found?" The Baron sounds a little taken aback now, and frankly he's trying to calculate how far off his understanding of her lies. 

She's clearly not a Hufflepuff. Still, this was... unexpected. He often finds the living confusing. Curiously, he hasn't the least problem reconciling that fact with the fact he also finds them boringly predictable, which seems inherently contradictory. It probably helps that he generally tries to avoid thinking about them more than absolutely necessary. 

This particular witch is proving an exception to the rule. He's not at all sure how he feels about that. 

Presumably not good. 

He doesn't think he ever feels... good. 

"They have enough of a head start. He won't catch them." She's reasonably sure anyway. And it's far too complicated and seems both rather sordid and frightfully banal to try to explain their falling out to the spectre. 

The Baron lets out a huff of something. It might even be amusement, "You are assuming he will not wait for class to end. Peeves can be patient. On occasion. They cannot hide there forever."

They continue down the corridor in silence until the Baron breaks it with something that sounds like a motor far past its sell-by date, assuming motors had them, trying to turn over. On reflection she realises that must indeed be what passes for laughter from his lips. It's disconcerting. "Not the least because the Potions Master would never permit it."

But she answers that with a genuine chuckle of her own, "No, I rather doubt he would." It was undoubtably bad enough the Professor had _one_ student invading his quarters now. There is _no conceivable way_ he'd ever be willing to expand that to three, and certainly not with _those_ two. Merlin, it was something of a miracle he was tolerating _her_. 

And Crooks.

* * *

  


Minerva looks up at the knock on her door. "Albus? What can I do for you?"

"Madam Snape has received some mail," he replies, and it strikes her as somewhat odd, both the statement and that he should be informing _her_ of it. On the other hand, she knows very well that the witch had been on the move when the owls arrived this morning; perhaps they'd been unable to locate her. 

"I'm afraid you've just missed her," she starts, gesturing in the direction the young woman had gone, and then Albus extends his hand to reveal a smoking Howler. "Oh, Albus!" She looks at it with a great deal of distaste. "You can't mean to give her _that_!"

Her hand claps over her mouth, subconsciously trying to hold back the stream of words that would reflect _precisely_ what she thinks about that. Her indignation only makes Albus' mission simpler. 

Minerva is appalled. No one had _any right_ to send the witch such a thing, this is _absurd_. She may even have mumbled something to that effect, or perhaps it simply shows very clearly on her face. Far more probably, Albus has been engaging in a bit of Legilimency again. His reply virtually gives it away. 

"I agree entirely, which is why I had hoped you'd be prepared to help us. I had meant to ask you at breakfast this morning, but you had already gone when I got there. Severus asked that we have someone screen her mail for the foreseeable future, and I thought, I _hoped_ you might be willing to do so."

She gives him a slightly withering look. Of course she'll do it, and he _knew_ she wouldn't be able to say 'no'. Particularly not when the alternative is to have the poor thing receive it instead... Minerva recalls how badly the girl had been affected by Severus' Howler. Clearly that's not an option. But naturally Minerva's mail duty _would_ begin with yet another Howler... She takes it from him, wordlessly, her displeasure obvious as she does so and eloquent enough. 

With a moue of disgust, she drops it on her desk, pushing it away from her, for all the good it does.

Albus gives her a small smile, only faintly apologetic, everyone has their role to play after all. He thanks her and turns to leave. 

"Wouldn't you care to stay to hear what it has to say?" She asks him rather innocently. The bondings _were_ his idea after all...

"I'd love to, I'm sure, but sadly I must dash."

"I didn't think so," her tone chiding.

"Come now, Min. I was so kind as to deliver it in person."

"You're a _paragon_ of solicitude, Albus. Whatever would we do without you?"

"Tut tut. I'm filling in for Severus, my dear girl. It wouldn't do to be late for class," he tells her almost ruefully, and as though he had no intention of Apparating back to the dungeons just as soon as he turns the next corner. He's reasonably convincing, but she knows him too well.

"Coward," she calls out after his retreating back.

He chuckles and waves over his shoulder at her as he turns into the the nearest stairwell and disappears from sight. 

A moment later, he reappears in Severus' office, and no one is the wiser.

* * *

  


"Thank you for coming to my rescue," Hermione tells the Baron, giving him a smile far less timid than yesterday's. Of course the Draughts _are_ helping, but the real difference is that she's growing used to her strange companion. That process has been greatly simplified by his refined comportment, and the fact she knows he _has_ come to her rescue, at least twice now. 

"Yet again. You seem to be making a habit of it." She's practically... chirping. She's... odd.  
  


He has no idea what the proper response is. He considers it for a moment, mulling it over, but still nothing occurs to him. Truth be told, he rarely has extended conversations with the living anymore. And when he does, it generally takes the form of... instructions. Giving or receiving, dependent on the other parties. He's out of practice. 

He doesn't even talk to the _dead_ all that long. Not if it can be helped. 

With a start, it occurs to him that he talks to _Peeves_ most of all. 

He goes almost completely transparent with the shock before fading back into view. Hermione makes nothing of it, the habits of ghosts still too thoroughly foreign. Presumably, that's likely to change in the foreseeable future. 

_Peeves_. Well, he owes that primarily to the fact that _he's_ the one stuck managing the Poltergeist, and the troublesome spirit requires a good deal of managing indeed. 

He considers the question of Peeves. 

It doesn't take long to decide he doesn't even like the Poltergeist. Not remotely. 

That probably shouldn't be unexpected. He's not sure he likes... anyone. No, he's at a loss there. He can't name a one. 'Liking' goes too far. 

Surely. 

But he likes Peeves a good deal less than... yes, than everyone else. 

He supposes that makes the fact he spends the most time talking to _him_... sad, then. 

And then he supposes that's... appropriate. He _is_ doing penance, after all. 

How... fitting. 

All of which leaves him unaccustomed to chatting with the living, and unsure if he even _should_.  
  


At a loss for an appropriate rejoinder, finally he just changes the topic. That usually works. "You were not in chambers this morning."

It's not a question. It's a statement with a hint of reproach, and she could swear there's something almost a little disappointed in his voice. And then she realises that he can only know that if he had observed their quarters for some time this morning. 

"You waited?" She asks, quite surprised. 

He's silent. She thinks she's touched, which is fortunate - the way things have been going lately, she was almost as likely to fear she'd gained a dead stalker. And then she realises it was no coincidence that he was there to run Peeves off either. 

He still doesn't say anything but she's confident she's right and suspects it tied in peripherally to his complaint about punctuality as well. His, or possibly _hers_. That's... Well, she'd never expected this. 

"You're keeping an eye on me?" She enquires carefully, keeping her tone very level. 

"At the request of your bondmate," he explains. She thinks it sounds like he's eager to justify his actions. And somewhat uncertain. Uncertainty is _definitely_ not something she associates with the Baron. He looks like he finds it every bit as unusual as well. 

She's trying to make sure she's grasped the situation, that she's not reading anything into it. "To make sure nothing happens to me?" She's not quite sure what to make of that. She's been getting around the school for years now with nothing... She stops right there. In the first place, that's not _remotely_ true, a basilisk comes unbidden to mind, and secondly Friday had changed a great deal. And presumably Sunday, and the bonding, had changed a great deal _more_. 

This isn't just about her, and the Professor had been _very_ clear about the meaning of the Geas. _'It would_ obligate _me to act. I can conceive of situations where you might find it... invasive or inappropriate.'_

The Baron seems to nod. "There is the Protection Vow to consider."

As she thought, then. "So he asked you to watch out for me." She tries not to smile. As solutions go, this seems minimally... invasive. It's hard to get _less_ visible than a ghost as a shadow, she supposes. And already she had managed to give him the slip, she thinks wryly, when Sunny Apparated her directly out of chambers. She'll need to ask the Professor about it and how to handle _that_ little detail. She has a strong feeling it's highly sensitive. 

The Baron nods again. It's more like his whole body bobs up and down, but she reads the movement well enough. 

How incredibly kind! Of both of them really. He doesn't look like he wants to hear that, though. He looks... wary. She considers her reply and settles on, "It's very good of you to do so for him then." 

"I serve," he answers succinctly. 

She has no idea what to do with that declaration. It's a curious choice of words, and she intuits that's not by chance. Not entirely sure she won't be giving offence, she tries to get him to expand on that. " _Whom_ do you serve?" 

"The School, the House, the Head of House." She wonders if there's an order to that and surmises there is. She doesn't have the courage to question that yet, or the experience to properly weigh the answer if he gives it, and lets that go for another time. 

She wants to ask 'why' he serves, but doesn't. That seems much too likely to offend him. She's lucky if she hasn't so far. So she tries from another direction. "Do all House ghosts 'serve'?"

He shakes his head. Ah. She thought not. "But I must atone," he answers, indicating his chains and further explaining not very much at all. 

Well, it's as clear as mud, but nothing a Skurge wouldn't sort. That's utter rubbish. She expects she won't understand him for some time to come, if ever. 

"And you're currently doing so by helping to keep an eye on me."

"But not as well as I had intended, it seems." And there's the note of disappointment again. She wonders if he's disappointed in _her_ for inadvertently thwarting him or with _himself_... That he wasn't able to help more... She imagines being immaterial must be frustrating for spirits from time to time. 

Eager to put his mind at ease and make abundantly clear what had occurred and why she'd effectively gone missing this morning, she launches into a perfectly Hermionesque explanation of where she'd spent the night and why - just what had happened to her battered bondmate, how she'd had to fetch him from outside last night - although she carefully doesn't mention Sunny's role - and how Madam Pomfrey had laboured to heal him, and as they reach the door to her chambers, she wraps up explaining that the poor Professor is _still_ in the Infirmary. More or less just like that.  
  


The Baron seems simply gobsmacked. 

"Well, surely that's not too unusual," she tells him once she finally notices his reaction. "Goodness, he's spent so much time there lately, I was beginning to think he'd taken up residence. Or maybe he was trying to avoid me."

The Baron just floats there, still staring at her.  
  


It's entirely possible that she's said more to him on their way to the dungeons than everyone else has in the whole of the past year put together.

He doesn't know what to make of it. 

"That was supposed to be a joke," she clarifies when he still doesn't say anything. 

"I know it wasn't very funny...

"You know it becomes even less funny when you have to explain it..." She tries to coax a response from him. _Any_ response from him. 

No, just her and the Chizpurfles. It's becoming a thing. She really may as well get used to it. 

He still doesn't say a word, and she's finding the silence awkward. Ghosts have very different perceptions of time, and that could be playing a role here. For the most part, however, the issue is she's rendered him speechless. 

"At any rate, I'm sorry you waited for nothing this morning. If I had known, I'd have had Sunny let you know we were in the Infirmary."

Finally! _That_ he knows the response to! "You hardly need to apologise for being in the Infirmary." Yes, he's satisfied that's correct. 

"Well, no, not for _being_ there, simply for keeping you waiting."

"You had no way of knowing," he concedes, mollified, and a bit bewildered at that fact. 

"And thank you once again for the rescue. _Again_ ," she smiles. 

The smile makes him uncomfortable. 

He's been thinking about her thanks from yesterday. Rather a lot. It's all very baffling, not the least because that means the living are encroaching further on his thoughts. He's not sure what to make of it. But he thinks he's discovered part of the issue. 

"Perhaps not 'again'," he corrects. She looks confused so he continues, his posture as formal as his tone, "There was no need to thank me for my services Friday. I was doing my duty towards my House. As such, I am undeserving of your appreciation for my actions on that evening." 

He feels better even as he says it. Lighter, which is silly of course, he weighs nothing. Still, he floats a little higher. He doesn't wish to accept gratitude under false pretences.  
  


Hermione, unfortunately, _doesn't_ feel better.  
  


In fact, that throws her quite a bit. 

She stands there thinking about it, and it's an _extremely_ good thing the Potions dull certain responses, because it's something of an emotional quagmire. The idea he had been acting to protect her _assailants_ is... 

Well, it's something else. 

She had fooled herself into feeling special, possibly _valued_ , under his watchful eye, and then he says this...  
  


But she's able to remain calm, _enough_ anyway, and she realises she has a choice to make. She can get upset about this, well, _more so_ , or she can try to get to the bottom of it. She chooses the latter. "How so?"

He registers the change in her demeanour and feels... he feels worse again now. Apparently his confession had been very... self-serving. It's more than odd enough having his own feelings, dead as he is. Considering the feelings of others... This is all very strange. He had been right - he probably shouldn't interact with the living more than necessary. 

Still... Disappearing now seems like it would be leaving something unfinished... Ghosts have far too much unfinished business as it is. 

So he stands, well, _floats_ (ha!) his ground and tries to explain. "Those boys would have been sent down, _should have been sent down_ , had the Head of House not put an end to their doings."

'Doings'. Well. She can't say she _likes_ the term. ' _Doings_ '... But she's still calm. Calm enough. And she thinks she understands something, this may be _true_ , but it doesn't have to be the _only_ truth. Ironically, it's something she seems to have learnt from her interactions with the Professor. So she chooses to pursue another truth. 

"Would you have acted, would you still have gone for help if they _hadn't_ been in danger of expulsion?"

"Naturally," he agrees without hesitation. 

"Yes. I thought as much." It feels like she has the ground back under her feet again. It's a significant improvement. 

It's still a little disquieting for her to think that someone could help her as monumentally he had and not consider that deed worthy of thanks, not see it as _significant_. Because it seems _horribly_ significant to her. But she has a firm sense now that wasn't quite what he'd intended by declining her gratitude. 

"Well, there you go then," she assures him. "What matters is that it _was_ a priority, I'm not going to fault you for the order those take, as long as it was a consideration." She accepts that she doesn't understand the ins and outs of the ghosts' duty to their Houses, and as she says it, she realises she isn't just being glib. She means that. 

"But I _didn't_ consider it before I went to find help..." he feels compelled to add. 

"But you _would have_ ," She answers now with conviction and smiles again. She gets the sense the Baron is very proper, that he hadn't wanted her appreciation unless he truly felt it was... earned. 

He hovers there, puzzled. He can't understand how she is so sure she knows his mind when _he_ hardly knows what to think. But he can't quite fault the statement either. She's correct. He _would have_. 

She wonders how the Baron could ever have been a Slytherin. His overwhelming urge to come clean, his unwillingness to accept her gratitude under a pretext... That hardly seems right for a Snake. And then even as she thinks it, she feels she's doing the Professor a grave injustice with that assessment of his House. That wasn't really what she meant. It's as though the Baron has forgotten much of what it was like to be human. Which is precisely what happened actually. 

It's all very... odd. He has no desire to make her unhappy, but he also feels uncomfortable on the receiving end of her smile. Perhaps he's out of practice with that as well. Naturally, because people so regularly smile at the sight of him... 

Still feeling that pressing need to be clear, the Baron tries again. "I wasn't a... _good_ man," he offers simply, holding up his chains which he now permits to rattle for demonstrative effect, as though it explained everything when in fact it explains very little. 

"No," she replies solemnly. "I hadn't thought so."  
  


Coincidentally, this is another line of thought the Professor had inspired and to which she has given quite some consideration in the past several days. She'd spent a great deal of time staring at the Dark Mark. She doesn't know the details, she imagines she may never, but she knows no one has ever suggested in her presence that he took the Mark to infiltrate You-Know-Who's ranks. He became a spy sometime _thereafter_. 

Logically, he must have been... sincere when he joined the Death Eaters.  
  


She has no doubt he gives more for the Order than anyone else. The experience of the past few days may be distorting that impression, but she's not wrong either. She's been thinking - _a lot_ \- about what it means to have made bad choices and to make amends. And how she feels about it. 

So she's not entirely unprepared for this line of conversation with the phantom before her. "You aren't forced to wear those?" She asks, gesturing to the apparition's chains. 

The Baron shakes his head and then does something no one has ever seen him do before, because no one has ever _asked_. He releases the translucent chains, allowing them to clatter down to the ground, and wafts away from them, coming to a halt on her other side. Unchained. Free.

"You wear them in penance?" Her voice is still soft, he nods again, his demeanour sober. "And you've done so for a very long time, haven't you?" Again he doesn't reply, but she thinks that might have been a shrug. It was a rhetorical question. She knows from 'Hogwarts: A History' that he dates back to the Founders' era. 

"Isn't that what counts? What you do, _voluntarily_ , for centuries? Not the mistakes, deeply regretted, of a single lifetime...

"If you've spent centuries, nearly a _millennium_ atoning, at some point, doesn't the slate have to be clean?"

He doesn't answer, deep in thought, merely drifts over to the chains and takes them up again.  
  


When he finally speaks, it naturally has nothing to do with what went before. 

"I imagine Peeves is hereabouts somewhere," he gives her a meaningful look, and she feels his mild reproof for having effectively directed the Poltergeist this way. "You should exercise caution when you leave for the meal."

"I was going to go to the library in a little bit, before lunch," Hermione volunteers, letting the information float much like the ghost does on the air between them. 

"Shall I... wait?" He asks slowly, patently unsure this is what she wanted. "And... accompany you?" 

The answering smile is immediate and bright. "Would you? I won't be all too long." Her lower lip half vanishes under her teeth and then she adds, "But I don't want to keep you. If you have something else you need to take care of..." _Why, yes, he needs to see the elves about his laundry_... It sounds ridiculous to Hermione's own ears even as she says it, but Nick had indicated often enough that the living were frequently very inconsiderate of the dead...

"I know exactly where the Library is; I won't have any trouble getting there on my own," she tries to reassure them both. 

The spectre looks at her closely. The issue, as he understood it, was not that she didn't know how to get around the castle, but that it was crucial to make certain she did so unassailed. 

"Or I can wait here for you until you're finished with whatever you wish to do in the meantime, so I, um, don't keep you waiting..." she winds up a little weakly. 

He likes her manners. And her premise is preposterous. "That will not be a problem, Madam. Ghosts are accustomed to waiting. It comprises most of our existence." Hermione thinks she detects a hint of amusement again. 

With another quick word of thanks and an assurance she won't be too long, Hermione enters her chambers as the Baron renders himself invisible and waits, pensively floating by her door.

* * *

  


A quick flick of Minerva's wand sets an Age Line of nineteen across her doorway. It's force of habit to use it for such purposes now, a Charm that has grown in popularity with the Professors since the Tri-Wizard Tournament three years ago, although - _usually_ \- without the option to sprout beards. It tidily keeps students out, while allowing all of staff and faculty to enter. She used to use fifty as the cutoff, but Severus had made some pointed remarks about that. 

He was right of course. 

Which isn't to say it hadn't been amusing... Particularly the time Rolanda had, quite by mistake, one might hope, inadvertently set the Charm so he ended up sporting a wispy white beard. The Flying Instructor had soon come to regret that. Antagonising a Potions Master is seldom a wise course of action, especially one so versed in the Dark Arts. The Depilating Draught, for example, had universally been deemed a rather appropriate response. It was fortunate she usually wore her hair so short, and it hadn't taken overly long to regain the status quo. After a week, much pleading on Rolanda's part, and a bottle of Ogden's in restitution, a truce had been reached.  
  


Another swish and twist erects a gossamer barrier across the doorframe, good protection against Extendable Ears, an arc and thrust has the surface Silenced, a Privacy Charm in effect, and now the students won't be able to hear what transpires within her room, either. 

With a deep sigh, she reaches for the Howler lying on her desk.  
  


It shouldn't come as a surprise, but naturally does, when the Howler bursts open and she's greeted by Molly's voice once again. It's a credit to Minerva's heart, if not her powers of deductive reasoning. She stands there trying to think of a curse colourful enough for the situation, and discovers she's just not given to suitable language. A side effect of being the daughter of a Minister, no doubt. This might be enough to make a convert of her though. 

Fudge on a broomstick, as the children like to say. 

The only consolation is that Molly must have lost her voice creating these. Minerva's undecided as to how much of a consolation that really is. She hopes Arthur, at least, enjoys it. 

Molly's Howler is quite a piece of work. A bit of absurdist theatre, really. Would that it ultimately concluded in the witch's lasting silence. It seems far too like something the drama students from the Wizarding Academy of Dramatic Arts might put on late on a Saturday evening in Carkitt Market and then complain that no one 'got'. Minerva is now exceedingly glad Severus thought to have Madam Snape's mail collected, and she's stopped being even remotely annoyed with Albus for his ambush. 

She can't begin to imagine what would have happened had the young woman received that _thing_ in public. The very idea of having that utter... _rubbish_ brayed in front of everyone in the Great Hall... 

The staff isn't above using humiliation to work for them in disciplining the students, but this... This gives new meaning to the word. It goes too far. It makes her wonder if Howlers should even be _allowed_. They've been a part of life for her so long that the very fact she thinks to question it at this late stage...

When people recognise their own failings in others, they frequently respond by either trivialising and overlooking them, or by being even less tolerant than a neutral party would be. Minerva hasn't a hint of understanding left in her for these failings. That might also be the result of her upbringing, but right now, she bristles with righteous indignation. And a residual soupçon of shame. 

Molly hadn't known what happened to the young Muggle-born's parents, hadn't thought to help them or bothered to ask after them, one may safely assume, or surely the entire Order would have known their fate. But _here_ , all of a sudden, she feels the need to be the responsible party. _Entitled_ to be the responsible party. She only seems to feel responsible when it's about bollocking someone. It's words, not deeds, and exceptionally easy words at that. 

Barring the damage to her larynx, that is. 

One lives in hope. 

The _only_ good thing, and Minerva can't begin to explain why she feels the need to _look for_ a good thing, but she does, is there is no casual dig at the Grangers in their daughter's Howler. At least the Weasley matriarch had shown that minute bit of... tact. Now what _difference_ that might have made given Severus' presumably would have been howled in his bondmate's presence... But it wasn't as utterly thoughtless as it had seemed at first. Or, no, it was certainly _thoughtless_ , but not quite as _hurtful_ taken in itself. 

Because of course it existed in a _vacuum_. 

Minerva doesn't know why she keeps trying to find something defensible in all of this. It's not. But that urge is probably the result of a decade spanning acquaintanceship with the woman. They had bonded over the loss of their brothers in the last war. Minerva wonders what she would have done had she lost Malcolm as well as Robert. And at least she had her nephews. Sometimes it seemed the loss of Fabian and Gideon had caused something in Molly to become... unhinged. 

In response to the Howler sent to Severus, she had intended to write Molly after classes today and explain what had actually happened to the poor young woman this weekend and why she and Severus had taken this drastic step. Now Minerva stands there realising what a _presumption_ that would have been on her part. 

That wasn't _her_ story to _share_. 

No, Molly will learn _nothing_ from her. The _last_ thing she's going to do is provide her with more ammunition. 

If she's quite honest with herself, the first Howler had _already_ proven beyond any doubt that Molly had no idea of how to manage sensitive information. None whatsoever. There's no question, the things being shrieked in these mailings would have been hurtful, both emotionally for the recipients and in terms of the responses of the others that could have been expected to be listening. But they were less hurtful for their inaccuracy. Wild accusations wouldn't damage the way the _truth_ would. 

And Madam Snape has made it clear, her plan is to continue as though unaffected. 

How unaffected would she be were the _facts of her assault_ broadcast for one and all to hear?

Minerva can't tell if one of the woman's benighted children had passed along castle tittle-tattle, or if Molly had allowed her imagination free rein, but she had done so in such a mad fashion, Minerva finds herself fearing for the woman's sanity. In the passage that best illustrated it, both the utter absence of logic and insensitivity to claims being made, Molly had managed to decry the completely subjective evils of a presumed abortion and pass along her condolences for a miscarriage; mutually exclusive, one should think. And all while simultaneously chastising, it was really probably closer to berating, the young witch for getting herself in the family way to begin with: _she really must brush up on her charms; that was simply Unforgivable_. 

All the more questionable, as Molly had scarcely been any older than Madam Snape when she fell pregnant with William. 

It demonstrates a glaring absence of healthy thought processes, so much so that Minerva finds herself tempted to reserve a spot for the woman in the Janus Thickey Ward at St. Mungo's. But then Molly would probably enjoy being kept beside Lockhart...

Minerva leans heavily on her desk as the opprobrium washes over her. It leaves her feeling as sullied as a dip in Stinksap and less easily cleaned.  
  


Outside the classroom, one of her fifth year O.W.L. classes stands watching their teacher listen to the Howler apprehensively. One of them in particular, Hafsa Devi, is growing increasingly anxious. She has very good reason to fear that this is another Howler from her mother, and the Professor does _not_ look the least bit pleased. That anxiety only gets worse, _much_ worse, when Professor McGonagall ends whatever Charm had blocked the door and bids them enter, turning to single her out in the process. "Miss Devi, would you kindly stay for a word after class?"

Damn.  
  


Her surprise will naturally be all the greater when Professor McGonagall asks her to put an end the Charm causing her brother's tail instead. Especially because Professor Flitwick already had.

* * *

  


When Harry and Ron arrive at the Potions room, there's no sign of Snape, and Ron has a flicker of hope that the man won't be making it today. There's nothing on the blackboard saying that class has been cancelled, and the classroom door was wide open and unwarded, so at the least it seems likely they'll have a substitute teacher today. 

But whoever it is isn't there yet.  
  


That's not quite correct, as Albus is currently next door in Severus' office, trying to marshal his strength after the Apparition for the class to come. But as far as the students are aware, they're unsupervised, and Albus truly has weightier worries just at the moment. 

His magic isn't stable. Some might argue _he_ isn't stable either; they'd probably be right. But just now his magic is of pressing concern to him. On the other hand, given his impaired cognitive faculties, he might not even realise how serious the _other_ issue is. Either way, the curse is progressing at an alarming pace, and he's having a bad day. The sort of day where an Apparition might leave him wanting a nap. 

He's been able to Apparate for one hundred years, give or take. This is absurd. 

And yet it _is_. 

Some days his magic surges in response to the curse, and the least little thing he does takes on dangerous proportions. He finds himself frequently not trusting himself to use his magic at all lately. It's not a daily phenomenon, thank Merlin for that, but not a week goes by when it doesn't manifest. Severely. It makes him wonder how long before Severus will be forced to act, to release him from his miserable existence. And they still have so much to accomplish...

Even maintaining the Notice-Me-Not on his hand seems an effort. 

He collapses into the chair at Severus' desk, staring at the pile of what appear to be... wedding presents deposited there - how ridiculous, Severus will be _thrilled_ \- and tries to catch his breath.  
  


The Ravenclaws have finally made their way to class, and everyone is now accounted for but the instructor. Ernie Macmillan's wand vibrates very softly as his Tempus chimes. Whoever is conducting the course today is now late. Ernie still seems to think that's Snape, and wonders aloud what's keeping the man. 

Armed with the news Finnigan had provided, Terry Boot tells him that would probably be Pomfrey and an Infirmary stay. There are some chuckles, Michael Corner can't quite resist telling the others about the 'Marriage-related Injuries' much to the general amusement. 

And not inconsiderable speculation. 

The four Slytherins and both Gryffindors abstain. 

Harry is positive Michael's full of shite. "Stop talking out of your arse, Corner," he growls. The fact the boy had once dated Ginny often seems to make him even harder to stomach. But that isn't helped any when he opens his mouth and such utter bollocks constantly seems to come pouring out. 

There's a quick backlash in which the other Ravenclaws, Padma, Terry and Morag MacDougal leap to Corner's defence, but it doesn't sway Harry in the least. Nothing does, he's too sure he knows what's what, as usual, that is until he takes a look at Ron and realises the ginger has gone atypically quiet. And an all too familiar shade of crimson. 

It's hard to decide if it's embarrassment or anger, and probably it's a mixture of both, but as someone who had heard Nurse Wainscott pronounce just _that_ as the reason for the Professor's hospitalisation, he knows better than anyone else there that Corner's actually got it dead right.  
  


The door to Snape's office bangs open and the budding argument is arrested as thoroughly as if Stupefied. The relief is unanimous, particularly given the _topic_ of the disagreement, when Professor Dumbledore strides in, all oblivious grins and friendly nods, and proceeds to offer Michael Corner a lemon sherbet, as though he didn't have his wand in his hand and weren't threatening to hex Harry. 

Everyone takes their seats and pretends nothing had happened, but Harry keeps hissing at Ron to please tell him _what's going on_. Ron's too miserable to answer. Dumbledore gets them started on the day's lesson, and watches as everyone sets to chopping their ingredients and stirring their cauldrons. 

The adaption of the Homonculous Charm that allows him to track the movements of those in the castle, without the need for a map it should be noted, although that last modification is thanks to his position as Headmaster, alerts him to a presence he's been waiting for. With a few words of apology and exceedingly generic encouragement, he disappears into Severus' office again.

"'Don't blow yourselves up'? Is he serious?" Morag asks Terry, as she adds the next ingredient to her cauldron. 

Severus would be inclined to agree. Particularly when the time comes to add the grated Knarl's quills. Merlin knows, that can prove... prickly. 

Terry just shakes his head in disbelief as he stirs his cauldron six times clockwise and then quickly twelve in the reverse. Sod it, or was that the other way around?

* * *

  


Hermione had spent long enough standing with the Baron within the Professor's wards to know something is different. It's... lost some of its... Well, it doesn't feel as good as it did yesterday. Which is a great disappointment. Sure, it was nice, there's no denying that, but it hadn't been... well, _nice_. 

That was it, it was nice, but nothing to owl home about. 

Assuming she still had a home or anyone to owl there.  
  


As that's hardly a healthy train of thought, she worries instead that the wards have lost their effect. She's certain they're still _in effect_ , that is to say _effective_. She could feel the ripple across her skin as she entered their chambers, but not that other sensation that had left her wanting to spend more time there than remotely reasonable or, say, in her perfectly wonderful shower. 

It would be a real pity if that's gone for good.  
  


She warmly greets Crooks, who gives her a reproachful 'Mrowr' before remembering he meant to ignore her, which he then does, turning his head demonstratively away from her. He's not quite the consummate actor he takes himself for, though, and as she gets some of the kippers for him from the icebox, his eyes still track her every move regardless of the direction he's ostensibly looking. And it's hardly convincing that the modern artwork should suddenly hold his interest so raptly. 

She's extremely relieved to see he's now ensconced in 'her' chair. At least _that_ worked. She laughs a little bitterly at herself that it had seemed so important to her to solve that last night, and there the Professor was marching to his... Well, not _doom_ , exactly, but... But then it wasn't as if she hadn't suspected how dire the circumstances were. 

She had just been trying to distract herself from it. 

And hadn't _that_ worked swimmingly.  
  


She sets a saucer of milk down next to her little man's kibble and kippers, and Crooks relents. Truthfully, he's missed his witch. He leaps from their chair and darts over to her legs, winding himself between them with a steady stream of purrs, and she bends to pet him and begins apologising that she never returned... home last night. 

Crooks hasn't quite the heart to resist her, at least not when fish is on offer, and soon he's in her arms for a cuddle. She buries her face in his fur, hugging him tightly, and tells him he's the loveliest boy ever. On consideration, Crooks imagines her obviously keen powers of perception must be the reason he likes her so. Beyond the kippers, of course. 

It's perfectly normal for her to tell him what she's been doing, and she does, giving him much the same treatment as the Baron. Crooks is decidedly less fazed than the ghost was at her recitation. But then he's had a number of years to grow used to the witch's ways. And indisputably, fish goes a _long_ way towards improving any story. He could recommend it wholeheartedly, but he has no intention of sharing. Which is fine, as it wouldn't help the Baron in the least anyway. 

Hermione doesn't particularly notice as she does it, but her story is entirely about what happened to the Professor and their stay in the Infirmary. She still hasn't told the feline about what happened to her Friday night. Now might not be the best time for it, as she doesn't wish to keep the Baron waiting _too_ long, but the Oath she gave the Headmaster wouldn't keep her from telling the half-Kneazle about her misadventure. Not that she's aware of that fact, as she hasn't even made an attempt. But the primary reason she hasn't tried to mention it is she still isn't quite up to putting her experience in words. 

Despite Draughts. 

Crooks is no fool. Sooner or later she'll explain their move to the dungeons. And how they came by their shiny new wizard. Well, perhaps not entirely 'new' or 'shiny', but then Crooks probably shouldn't be one to speak as to that. And if not her, if _she_ doesn't spill, and soon, he'll simply go to work on said wizard. The man doesn't seem to have as much experience with felines. Crooks imagines he'll be easily mastered. 

The elf is a different story altogether...  
  


Slightly frustratingly, his witch drags him with her to her room, leaving his food bowl _still_ untouched, setting him down in her bathroom while she continues her story as she runs a brush through her hair. He's torn. He can't begin to imagine why she'd put food out _first_ and then expect him to follow a word she says, but he's waited this long. He can give it a few heartbeats more. 

But there had better be still more fish in it for him. Or an ear scratching. That might be for the best. It probably wouldn't do to become fat.  
  


Hermione lets out an "Oh!" of surprise when she spots her reflection. She trusts Madam Pomfrey's skills completely by now, but if _this_ is what she looks like _after_ the Matron had tried to tame her mane, _no wonder_ the witch had insisted upon it. 'Tousled' is putting it mildly. She does look rather wild. Which now has her wondering just _how wild_ she must have looked when she marched into the Great Hall this morning... Perfect. 

Her hair is all the more strange for the fact it's simultaneously more styled and yet... bushier than usual, they way it gets when she's been brewing too long. 

She grabs a brush and starts trying to beat it into submission, with only moderate success, continuing her rather one-sided conversation with Crooks as she does. He has his exceptionally thoughtful look about him, clever, clever boy, and no one will ever convince her he doesn't understand every word she says. 

She's just moved on to brushing her teeth, Crooks takes advantage of the opportunity her forced silence provides to race back to the kitchen and his bowls, when there's a disturbance in the wards. There's a knock at the office door and, stupidly, Hermione has a moment where her heart skips irrationally with relief before she realises the Professor can't possibly be at the door. And he wouldn't knock. 

And she knows from their trials yesterday that it feels... _different_ when he's the one standing there. 

She quickly rinses and goes to the door.

* * *

  


Hermione is surprised when she opens the door to the office to discover the Headmaster. She's even more surprised to discover that he can't enter when she bids him to, although on consideration it makes perfect sense - she has no idea of how to adjust the wards. 

She, of course, has no way of knowing that he's feeling weaker today, but he isn't entirely sure he could best the wards on a good day. That sort of thing is very much Severus' forte, and to give the man his due: the wizard is no slouch. He's also very fond of material Albus has made a practice of avoiding for quite some time now. And of course acting under the guise of a double agent provides Severus with the perfect excuse to still immerse himself in darker magics. 

Hermione's intrigued to discover Professor Dumbldore can't simply cross the wards or they haven't been adjusted to allow him entry. There's a tendency on the part of many students, particularly Gryffindors, to think he can do just about anything. Severus, understandably, prefers to adjust his wards as he sees the need. Naturally, he rarely sees a need. 

She's even more surprised when the Headmaster brushes aside her apology for not being able to invite him in to ask her to step into the office instead. He has something for her. In point of fact, he has a whole bunch of... somethings. 

There's a pile of what seem to be gifts, _wedding gifts_ , how unexpected, apparently for her and the Professor. She has a fleeting moment of worry as to how he'll take that. Then she spots a bottle of Ogden's and imagines he'll be sensibly pragmatic about it. But she makes a note to herself that she should probably handle the 'thank you's without him. Yes, that would undoubtedly be for the best. 

She sets a Wingardium Leviosa to work to shift the haul to the nearby dining room table. There's a brief flash of pleasure when she spots what she is sure must be a gift voucher from Flourish & Blotts, before she decides she should probably leave that to him, too, given he's the one who has clearly suffered losses off the back of this bonding of theirs. 

Albus watches the witch's expression as she moves the things into her chambers. She really is incredibly easy to read. The happiness, ah, books. The concern, yes, champagne. He smiles slightly, her instincts are probably right on that score. The concentration as she summons a yellow glazed ceramic plate from the kitchen and arranges what can only be Rock Cakes from Hagrid upon it. For the adventurous, to be sure. It's followed by a glass which she Transfigures into a vase for her... wedding bouquet. Yes, those are the flowers from Sunday, which she then Banishes in the direction of what used to be Severus' study. 

It's presumably her room now... 

And then with equal concentration she sets to cleaning the cheery yellow vase the bouquet had been in so it can now hold Pomona's flower arrangement, in pride of place in the centre of the table. When she's done, it all looks rather lovely, set up the way she's done it, somewhat artfully arranged around the bouquet. She has a deft touch. 

Severus will absolutely _hate_ it, he's sure.  
  


"How is Severus doing?"

"Madam Pomfrey says he'll wake soon." She doesn't really answer his question. She holds him and his bloody announcement yesterday to blame for the Professor's state, and she finds it difficult to wish to be... cooperative just at the moment. But she's also not terribly good at bucking authority, and instead offers, "I'm planning on joining the two of them for lunch."

Albus tries not to smirk at how Severus is likely to receive _that_. Still, she's every bit as loyal as he'd hoped. That should help. Merlin knows, she'll need to be. 

"I'm covering Severus' classes. He's been... painstakingly thorough with his notes," he says with a huff of humour. He can't help thinking about entries such as 'Kurz is a catastrophe personified. Under no circumstances let him out of your sight for even an instant when brewing.' No, Severus had made it practically idiot proof. 

"The whole week is prepared, should we need it, so there are no worries there. There's no rush. He should take as much time as he needs. Or wants. But I _was_ hoping to hear how he's faring." 

Hermione has a sudden awareness of what that means. With a sense of horror she realises that probably while she'd been inanely trying to master Charms to Vanish Crooks' fur, of all the utterly, unbelievably _stupid_ and _inconsequential_ things, the man must have sat there at his desk knowing full well he'd soon be out of commission, at least for a while, or possibly _worse_ , and had prepared for it calmly, _all on his own_ , as if it were a day like any other. 

Which it may well have been for him.  
  


Just the thought of it kind of makes her sick.  
  


Albus watches her blanch, Legilimency takes care of the rest. Yes, she's beginning to understand. Well, if she had tended to be loyal before, this understanding will only help. He asks her to keep him informed about Severus' condition. He doesn't think she heard a word. He tells her he needs to return to class. Absently she thanks him for the presents, almost as though they were from him. With a twinge of guilt, he realises none of them were as she closes the door between them.

* * *

  


As if their cauldrons weren't enough to keep the N.E.W.T. Potions students busy, and why should they be, it's not long before the lack of supervision is sufficient to set them to resuming their discussion from earlier. 

"'Marriage-related injuries'?" Terry prompts. 

"And what are _they_ when they're at home?" Morag asks.

"Old man, old ticker. Blood young wife," Ernie answers concisely. "It was to be expected." Which is true of both their teasing and Snape's Infirmary stay apparently, a statement more true, in fact, than any of them will ever comprehend given the Death Eaters had put him there _because_ of the bonding. 

"Who knew Granger had it in her..." Michael contributes in a tone far too contemplative for Ron's comfort. 

"Are you kidding? They're _bonded_." Ernie replies. Again Harry has that feeling that the wizard-raised have a fundamentally different take on that than he seems to. "With _those_ vows, the only thing Granger has in her is..." And he stops abruptly, unable to continue. 

Ron has had enough, he snapped and sent a Langlock Ernie's way, which is particularly unfortunate as the Hufflepuff needs to cast the Incantation for his Potion just about now, and it goes off sure as night follows day. When the sandy-blond begins gesticulating irately, Terry notices and responds for his friend by throwing a Stinging Hex back at the ginger. Ron blocks it with reasonable ease, but as luck would have it, only deflects it, and it hits Padma quite squarely as she's trying to add her Knarl's quills. 

Only Theo's quick Protego keeps her from serious burns as her cauldron explodes. 

Her priorities being only marginally better than Hermione's, naturally the young Ravenclaw is upset first and foremost about what that means for her grade, and she rounds on Ron with a fury he hasn't seen since a swarm of birds attacked him fourth year. 

Witches. 

Tracey Davis' voice brings most of them to their senses, "Merlin's blighted bollocks in a vice!" Ron shifts, reminded again of his itchy pants. It's always worse, somehow, when he starts thinking about it. "This is a Potions classroom and not a bleeding playground! Save your tomfoolery for later." A young woman after Severus' heart. She does him proud. 

"But there's no duelling in the hallways," Padma hastens to interrupt, half mindful of her Head Girl duties as she surveys the ruins of her Potion. She looks just this side of tears. 

Tracey gives the Ravenclaw a withering glance, still questioning how Patil and Macmillan were ever chosen for their respective positions. "And, Weasley, undo whatever you've done to Macmillan," she continues, her contempt for him clear as well. 

"For fuck's sake," Blaise adds, apparently expressing agreement. "Right before the Incantation too. Are you _trying_ to sabotage him?" Truthfully, Blaise wouldn't care if he _were_ , quite the contrary - Macmillan's a knob, and also rather doubts the Gryffindor had meant anything _at all_ by the timing of his attack. It would require a level of awareness the Sytherin sincerely doubts the Weasel has. But he knows the accusation will get under the ginger's skin. 

He's right, it does. He's also right, Ron hadn't read far enough ahead in the instructions to even know an Incantation was required. Hack. 

"Language, Zabini," Padma responds, drawing still more dismissive looks from the Slytherins. 

Grudgingly, Ron ends the Langlock. Naturally, it doesn't take long for Ernie to resume speaking, not atypically by complaining. "Congratulations, Weasley, you've managed to ruin both my and Patil's Potions in one go. I suppose that's one way to ensure your marks don't drop too far without Granger to walk you through the material."

"Snape," Terry corrects with a smirk, and draws a couple of laughs. 

"Snape," Ernie agrees with a nod and a chuckle that makes both Harry and Ron want to hex him. "Quite right, I was remiss."

Padma's belated, "Quick thinking, Nott. Thank you," is swallowed in the heated shouting that ensues. 

Tracey just keeps telling herself it's only a matter of months before she takes her N.E.W.T.s and gets well clear of this lot and never has to see the majority of them again. 

It can't come soon enough. 

She and Theo lift their Stasis Charms and get back to brewing. Blaise hadn't bothered stopping long enough to need one. Draco, on the other hand, had simply cast a Protego to cover his back and hadn't even paused to look up once. He has enough problems, he tells himself, he won't go courting more. 

As most have thoroughly neglected their stirring by this point, other than the four Slytherins, Morag MacDougal will be the only one to finish brewing her Potion successfully, much to Padma's dismay.

* * *

  


With a fairly heavy sensation in the pit of her stomach, Hermione no longer feels remotely like chatting to Crooks and the Baron _is_ waiting. Noticeably more sombre, she swaps the Transfiguration book for the texts for her afternoon classes, Arithmancy, DADA and Herbology, and takes a last look around the flat to make sure she hasn't left anything lying about. Not once does she even think to consider the pile of gifts on the table in that category. 

She notices two scrolls on the Professor's desk in the corner, which strikes her as odd. They hadn't been there last night, and after the interaction with the Headmaster, she now has the feeling not much and not many can enter the chambers without the Professor's express permission. And _he's_ clearly been otherwise occupied. But along those lines, she _herself_ has just brought a rather considerable amount of... stuff into their quarters. 

Given she knows for a fact Sunny had restocked the icebox, and is more than capable of bringing things across the wards, it probably wouldn't be too much of a stretch to think he might have placed those scrolls there as well. But that doesn't cross her mind just now, and she doesn't even give them a closer look, respecting the Professor's privacy. That would be slightly more laudable if she didn't have to think consciously about doing so to accomplish it. 

With a last farewell to Crooks, who has already picked all the fish from his bowl of food, she enters the hallway and calls for the Baron who shimmers into view beside her.

* * *

  


Albus enters the Potions classroom to discover all but five of his eleven students engaged in an altercation that seems to be rapidly getting out of hand. At least one cauldron has exploded in his absence. And _only_ the aforementioned five appear to still be working on their Potions, the rest seem to have abandoned all pretence of completing the assignment entirely. 

Hmm.

He can hear Severus laughing now. Worse. The man won't laugh, he'll simply raise a supercilious eyebrow and smirk. Well, yes. Perhaps it's a little deserved. His notations for this class went something along the lines of keeping a close eye on Potter and Weasley, Weasley in particular, and the problem points would be the Knarl's quills and the Incantation, at least one of which Severus had anticipated Weasley cocking up. 

More Legilimency naturally confirms those as the points where it had all gone pear shaped, if not precisely with Mr. Weasley's caldron per se. He suspects that distinction is immaterial. Particularly as the boy _had_ , in fact, made a thorough balls-up of an Incantation. Whose probably doesn't matter. 

Bugger. 

"The Head Boy, the Head Girl, and two of the remaining six Prefects are in this class, and I can't leave you alone for a few minutes. Shameful."

Draco doesn't bother pointing out that _he_ was still working. In theory, as a Prefect, he should intervene and stop situations like this. On the other hand, given the six fighting _included_ the Head Boy and Girl and one other Prefect, one could just as easily assume they should have had a better grip on _themselves_. He just keeps his nose down and concentrates on his Potion.

Ron is slightly less clever, and tries to justify... everything. "But, Sir! He said..."

He doesn't get far, and it wouldn't have helped. Repeated out of context, it doesn't even seem enough to justify his actions to his _own_ ears. 

Dumbldore interrupts him. "That wasn't an invitation to speak, Mr. Weasley. This is positively disgraceful." Albus isn't entirely sure if he means _their_ performance or _his_. It doesn't matter how well the first two periods went, or how well the afternoon goes, Severus won't let him live this down. Probably rightly so. "Twenty points from each of your Houses." 

That gets a rise from one of the Slytherins. Tracey Davis, coincidentally the only one of the four not particularly preoccupied with the Serpents from this morning, speaks up. "But, Sir, we didn't _do_ anything."

"Presumably not, if your Potions are any indication," he concedes. "Twenty points from each of the rest then."

Padma and Ernie both have something to say about that, which they do simultaneously. Another bit of Legilimency reveals Miss Patil was undeniably blameless, he returns her points, but that Mr. Macmillan had contributed to his own misery sufficiently, so that the penalty was well deserved. The second Legilimens goes a little awry, however, and leaves the Hufflepuff with a sharp headache he can't begin to account for. 

Blast. Albus resolves to be more careful, for roughly the sixth time today. 

"Mr. Macmillan, would you care to repeat what you said that precipitated the hexing?" The Headmaster asks him pointedly, and Ernie, deciding discretion is the better part of valour, a little grudgingly accepts the point loss in lieu of providing an explanation guaranteed to make things worse. 

"You six, put the room to rights. I don't want to see a trace of _any_ of this when you've finished." He gestures at the remains of Miss Patil's cauldron, dripping like ichor from the walls and ceiling. As though a thorough tidy-up would save him from Severus discovering this little mishap... With a sigh, Albus remembers, _vividly_ , what he disliked about teaching. Of course in Transfiguration, things were much less likely to go 'boom'. 

Padma, still feeling poorly done by, joins the five boys in straightening the room. It occurs to her that there's only her, Morag and Davis left besides the boys, and that she might just miss having Granger in their class after all. The Gryffindor Prefect would have certainly made at least an effort to put a stop to the quarrel before. Of course, if she _had_ been there, it probably never would have taken place.

* * *

  


The little witch beside him is a good deal more quiet, less... chatty than she'd been not all so many minutes ago, and the Baron hasn't the hint of an explanation for the change. He thinks he should prefer it, he's quite certain of it in fact, except for some reason he can't begin to fathom, he doesn't. 

It bothers him.  
  


So after a while, he initiates conversation. Conversation!

If this keeps up, she'll no doubt be the death of him. Ha!

He kills himself. 

Ha! Hmm. Perhaps too on the nose. 

Yes. 

Unfortunately that humour never seems to translate well to the living. Not that he ever tries. No. 

That could conceivably have something to do with it. 

But it is an incontrovertible fact that he's not known for his sense of humour. 

He used to have a temper. He was known for that. He thinks that wore off about seven centuries ago. It may have been longer. He used to be impatient. He lost that trait in his first century as a ghost. It may have taken him longer to learn patience than most, but there are few that would still remember. Here, it's a total of one, in fact. And her memory is highly selective. 

He's not sure, but he has this sense that if one stops being what one _was_ , the only thing left is to become something... _else_. Not even a ghost can be... nothing. 

Perhaps his present self has a sense of humour then. 

No, that seems unlikely.  
  


So he sticks to the tried and true. Ask a question. People answer. And he probably won't be required to add any more to the conversation. 

It's for the best, no doubt. 

"Was something not in order in chambers, Madam Snape?"

At his address, she starts from her thoughts. Unsurprisingly they had revolved around the Professor's rather bleak circumstances and the sacrifices he makes. Thinking the Baron, at least in some ways, must have some of the same qualities as the Potions Master, she decides to take advantage of his willingness to engage with her. She thinks... Well, he seems inclined to answer the occasional question, and perhaps he can provide her with an insight or two. 

"I was confronted with some evidence that... my bondmate," she sounds a little unsure as she says it, but the Baron doesn't blink and it will grow easier with practice, "was perfectly aware how badly things would end for him yesterday."

The Baron waits her out. He's seen much suffering, just from that man alone, in fact. It's not a subject that will frighten him off. 

"And I realised how alone he was facing that. And that despite everything I can feel through our bond, I couldn't tell what was going on. Not in advance. Later, when... when... it was _happening_ to him, _then_ I could tell. But not in time to help him. Not in advance."

He's silent for a little while. He doesn't involve himself overmuch in the affairs of the living, but the current Head of House... he represents some very unfinished business indeed. 

It's not supposed to work that way, he thinks, that a ghost accumulates still more unfinished business over the course of his afterlife, and yet he had. Maybe that had been possible because he was trying to atone. The intended and accomplished can lie worlds apart. 

The Baron hadn't been as... conscientious when the man had been a student. There were some moments from that era, all too like the one only a few days ago, when the Baron hadn't intervened and most likely should have, when he could have made a difference and hadn't. Making matters worse, far worse, he suspects he and the Head have far too much in common as things currently stand. Some days he worries the Head will become a ghost here in the castle alongside him. 

He takes his duties more seriously now, defines them differently, having decided that he will never find redemption if he doesn't, determined to avoid another so grievous mistake, to not betray another student as... thoroughly. It doesn't cross his mind that his perception of the damage is skewed because for once he sees the effects play out in the man's later life, unlike with those who graduated and left, or that the responsibility had perhaps lain more accurately with the wizard who had been the Head of Slytherin at the time. In part that's because the Baron never had the same relationship to him as he does the current Head, and not anywhere near as much respect. 

"What could you have done, Madam?" He finally asks. "Had you known in advance? What could you have changed?"

"I know I couldn't _change_ anything. I know that. But wouldn't it _help_ just to know someone knows what he's facing? That someone cares what happens? That he wasn't... _alone_?"

The Baron has been alone, separate, apart for so long he's lost all feeling for what that might mean. He, at least, has roughly a millennium of experiences as an excuse. He has a suspicion that the Head isn't any more familiar with company than he is. It hasn't taken the man a fraction of the time to get there. 

He thinks about it for a while, trying to picture not being alone and failing. Utterly. He eventually has to acknowledge, at least to himself, that he can't answer her questions. 

So he chooses to point out a few possibly relevant facts instead. "You are bondmates. You share a connection." It's somewhere between a statement and a question and Hermione nods to encourage him to continue. "If you care, he will know. If you care, he cannot be alone." 

Acting under much the same internal pressures that the Baron had before, Hermione feels compelled to very sadly admit, "But I didn't, not in advance..." 

She's forgetting that she _had_. Perhaps not hours before, but how could she have? She had no idea what was going to happen. But when he left their chambers the evening before, he _had_ left knowing she was worried for him. And the Baron is correct, he _hadn't_ felt as alone. 

But his answer gives her something more to chew on.  
  


They walk in silence for a ways, and finally he tries again. He's not sure why, but this mood of hers seems... wrong. It doesn't suit her. 

He's practical, or tries to be. Sometimes he forgets his goal, which makes that a good bit more difficult. That would be a downside to the older apparitions, they often become more... diffuse with age. He hadn't been able to escort her to classes this morning, and he knows that the Head thought that might prove... problematic. Especially today. He considers how to best get the information from her and then almost smirks. She's a Gryffindor, and so he simply asks. "How did you fare getting to class this morning?"

He takes her a little off guard with the question, and Hermione finds she's eager to think about something... else. His query is as good a distraction as any other. And so she tells him how Professor McGonagall had escorted her to class. 

"Was it necessary?" 

It's very direct, and she feels compelled to answer just as directly. "Not until we reached the classroom." 

He nods, understanding why that might be an issue. He had been there Friday, after all. 

"I am at your service should you wish for... company in the future." He sounds so... stiff, that Hermione can't help smiling a bit. 

"Thank you. I'll probably take you up on that." She thinks about it some and continues. "I don't think the other classes are really so much of a problem. The other _classrooms_..." she corrects.

He nods again. The Head had suggested as much, and what he himself had witnessed was sufficient to understand well enough. 

They reach the Library and he asks if he should wait for her again. 

"No, I have some research to do, and I don't know how long I'll be. I shouldn't like to keep you waiting."

He nods solemnly, fully intending to return, he needn't be seen if she doesn't wish, but likes that his time is a consideration for her. It's very... unusual. 

"If I am not here when you leave for the meal," he instructs her, because instructions are still his preferred form of communication, "give Peeves a wide berth if you should see him. Mentioning me should prove... adequate to send him packing. But it doesn't do to attract his focus unnecessarily. Take my word for this. Under _no_ circumstances disclose anything further to him about others. Or yourself. 

"It is far from advisable, Madam, to have him thinking he can terrorise confidences out of you."

She blinks at that, she hadn't considered their interaction under that light. Remotely. And now she understands why the Baron is a Slytherin after all. 

She thanks him again, leaving it open for what exactly, and he gets the feeling she hadn't entirely minded his escort. 

Which, typically, he finds... odd. 

He is beginning to think her acquaintanceship will... challenge him. That's more true than he knows. 

He floats there waiting for her to enter the Library. The Head had said this location would most likely be another source of trouble for the witch, and the Baron is... patient. She mistakes it for good breeding, which while also true is far from the cause. 

She pauses before the doors and then somewhat cheekily replies, "But I didn't have a choice with Peeves earlier." He disagrees, of course, and considers which of the reasons, beyond those he just mentioned, he should expand upon to make her comprehend. "'Your Bloodiship', 'your Baronship', 'your Bloodiness'... I was forced to act. If I'd let him continue, the pattern dictates next he'd have called you 'your Baroness', which is clearly very wrong."

She stands there with her hand on the Library's doorknob, smiling, satisfied with herself that she now feels confident enough to crack wise with the Bloody Baron of all... well, not 'people' precisely. Ex-people? Again she forgets the Draughts probably have something to do with that, but the more comfortable she _thinks_ she is, the more comfortable she will in fact come to be. 

He looks at her for a very long moment, his brow furrowed, deep in thought, and Hermione begins to worry she'll have to attempt to explain the humour to him again and wonders why she even tried...

"Indeed," he finally responds dryly. "In Britain, the correct form of address is 'Lady'." 

She stands there staring. After all the other shocks of the past few days, this one takes the cake. 

The Bloody Baron is actually _funnier_ than she is. 

With a spirit-lifting chuckle, she enters the Library. Not once did she notice that she hadn't felt even slightly uncomfortable getting there, that's how thoroughly distracted she'd been.

* * *

  


Hermione has a few things she'd like to accomplish before lunch, and not nearly enough time to do them all. But that's almost always true of Hermione and libraries. She's resigned herself to checking a few books out of the Restricted Section that will provide her, hopefully, with the literal chapter and verse on bonds, and doing some investigating into the Professor's background in back issues of the Prophet. That obviously will need to be done in the Library. 

The second task probably isn't as pressing, and she's content to do that as and when she finds time. But the bond... That clearly needs to be better understood. Sooner rather than latter. Ginny's... comments about the ring have been niggling at the back of her mind. That needs explaining. And she'd like to understand the emotional connection a little better, especially as she gathers it hadn't been a given. No... it _hadn't_ been, and that needs clarification.  
  


Full of purpose, she confidently approaches Madam Pince's desk to present the Librarian with her permission slip from Professor McGonagall so she can get to work. This is the best she's felt since Friday. Hermione's in her element here, she knows what she's doing and what she wants, and the Baron had walked her past the tricky areas outside, and frankly she'd been too caught up to even notice the difference his company had made. And _here_ , inside the Library, she is safe. She's _home_. 

It sounded simple enough.  
  


Unfortunately, Irma is still quite angry about the set to she'd had with Minerva Saturday morning, apparently because the little bint had been telling porkies. Unwilling to take her lumps for whatever she'd gotten up to Friday night, it would seem the chit had told anyone who would listen she'd been _attacked in the Restricted Section_. Minerva had had more than a few choice words for Irma on the matter, and the Librarian hasn't stopped seething since. 

When she looks up and sees the girl responsible, her first reaction is shock. It's quickly supplanted by a cruel smile when she sees the slip of parchment in the witch's hand, and then that smile broadens at the sight of the signature. _Too_ perfect. _Ideal_ , even. 

"I'm very sorry, Miss Granger," she tells her without a hint of apology in her voice, if Hermione had to name it, she'd call the emotion... delight. "Apparently you've proven yourself incapable of facing the dangers found in the Restricted Section. In good conscience, I can no longer permit you access."  
  


No amount of begging, pleading or explaining was able to sway the pale Librarian, not the least because she wouldn't admit what was really at the heart of her problem. If Irma could get away with it, she'd ban the chit from the Library entirely, but she knows it would be hard to justify doing that to an advanced N.E.W.T.s student and a Prefect at that. Irma takes her victories where she easily can, and she savours the look on the wench's face as she slinks off in defeat. 

Knowledge denied!

When people stand in clear opposition, a sort of natural law dictating the conservation of absolute happiness takes effect. One party's happiness is maximised at the expense of the other's. Not _remotely_ by chance, this is the best Irma has felt in days.  
  


Hermione stalks off fuming. She can hardly bother Professor McGonagall with this right now, she's in class. And somehow she got the feeling that this had been... personal. It was every bit as much directed at the Transfiguration Professor as it was at herself. She's not sure drawing her Head of House into this will lead to a satisfactory resolution. She'll need to give it some thought. 

With few options available at present, Hermione turns her attention to the back issues of the Prophet as she'd thought to do in the days to come. She makes herself comfortable on the floor and begins working her way through the issues from before her first year. She thinks she'd remember any articles appearing about her Professor since she had started as his student. They would have stood out. 

A Charm Luna taught her simplifies her work greatly. Once Ravenclaws pass their O.W.L.s, they're taught a secret Charm by their fellow Housemates that allows them to Search for a specific term to see if it is mentioned in a chosen work. It doesn't find the passage, sadly, but it's still remarkably useful to narrow down the selection of material to peruse. Hermione wishes she'd known of this years ago, but the Gryffindors have nothing at all like it. She was incredibly lucky Luna had been willing to risk ostracism and had shared it with her. 

They'd tried teaching it to Ron and Harry. Ron had pointed out that it was only useful if one meant to read anything _other_ than the assigned texts. If one didn't plan to read even _those_ books... Well, he couldn't see the point of it. She'd managed not to hex him, but probably only because they were in the Library at the time. Harry had mussed his hair and given her his best sheepish grin, and said she was _so much better_ at research than he'd _ever_ be... He sort of couldn't see that it would help if he were to try, less successfully he might add, to reduplicate her efforts. 

And there they were, her best friends and their relationships described in a nut shell.  
  


Determined to make the best of the time she has before lunch, Hermione gets to it. Which isn't to say she isn't steaming. She very much is. A half a dozen times she has to remind herself to check her actions, or she'll rip one of the dusty old newspapers as she goes. That wouldn't do at all. 

A bit of deductive reasoning, and she realises she can narrow a few of the search parameters. She tries to prioritise what she'd like to learn in light of what the Prophet will probably yield. And with a fair bit of frustration, she realises it won't be much... 

Fine. 

She takes a conscious decision to ignore the period of the last war and its aftermath, especially the trials. She doesn't trust the Prophet to report things accurately, she has far too much personal experience with that, and she doesn't want lies and half truths colouring her opinion of the Professor. Nothing in the Prophet will _ever_ begin to reflect what she knows for a fact he went through for the Order last night and what she's quite sure he suffered Friday, too, for that matter. If they don't know the truth, then there's little point to reading what they have to say about it. 

She decides she'd like to know more about his parents and, she feels a bit foolish, well, _a lot_ foolish, but there it is, his birthday, because that really seems the sort of thing one should know... _And_ it's absolutely something she'll never ask. She's aware the Professor was a contemporary of Remus and Sirius. So she knows roughly when he was born. She imagines... Well, Sirius hadn't cared for him much. Were the Professor... Had he been born out of wedlock, she's sure it would have been... mentioned. 

There's no announcement of his birth within two years either way of when she assumes he was born, but searching for the last name 'Snape' in the time before his estimated year of birth eventually leads to the discovery of a marriage announcement. 

_'Eileen Prince to Tobias Snape'_... 

Hermione knows how _that_ ended. 

She has the verification that the 'Eileen' Professor Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey had mentioned was indeed Eileen _Prince_. His mum. Last year's investigation - and hadn't that taken _so much longer_ without Luna's Charm - had uncovered that Eileen had been the Hogwarts Gobstones Champion...

Far more intriguingly, Hermione now has a very firm suspicion as to who might have been the previous owner of Harry's Potions text, which makes perfect sense when she thinks about it. The Professor had mentioned the Muffliato _specifically_ Friday night... And when he rescued Malfoy last year, he'd told Harry the Sectumsempra had a rare Countercharm almost no one would know... That's confirmed knowledge of _two_ of the Prince's Spells, right there. She adds that to the list of things she'd like to pursue, but doesn't quite know how to confirm that without landing Harry in it. 

Which she wouldn't want to do, even if it _did_ mean satisfying her curiosity... 

_Really_. 

She sighs and goes back to wondering about Eileen Prince and if the witch left any other record behind... 

It's not a great distraction from what she's now decided is nothing more than busywork, especially because her search isn't fruitful. Some issues are missing, they really are very old, but there is no other mention of Eileen to be found. It isn't long before Hermione's thoughts turn to what record she herself is leaving behind - scarlet witch, temptress and breaker of Tri-Wiz Champion hearts. There's a flash of horror as she tries to picture what the press will make of the bonding, closely followed by resignation knowing she can't stop it, and the realisation it will probably matter to her less than facing Malfoy this morning in class had, which cheers her a little. She _had_ conquered that problem, and she _will_ weather the publicity, too. 

But there's a great deal more stewing as she thinks _this_ is what she's stuck doing with her time instead of pursuing information on the bond. 

Pince is a real piece of work.

* * *

  


Severus lies in his bed, the effects of the Sleeping Draught nearly out of his system. There's an outrage, a frustration, a fury agitating his nerves in a way that's utterly unfamiliar. It's invading his dreams, just as surely as a bushy-haired bondmate has, and is dragging him back to consciousness, much as she's dragged him through his nightmares. He pries open his eyes, and despite the creeping realisation he's doing much, _much_ better than he thinks he should be, the awareness that the sensation from before had _not_ been a dream overcomes him. 

No, he knows _precisely_ what it is.  
  


Somewhere, Miss Granger is in the midst of an almighty strop. 

"Fucking hell."

  



	71. 11 11k Tuesday - Sub-Optimally Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hermione, Severus, the Bloody Baron, Nearly Headless Nick, Harry, Ron, Albus, Theo Nott, Draco, Blaise Zabini, Ernie Macmillan, Terry Boot, Michael Corner, Morag MacDougal, Padma Patil, Tracey Davis, Winky, Filius, Poppy, Irma Pince, mentioned: Fred and George_

Hermione is kneeling on the floor of the library, thoroughly frustrated, stacks of back issues of the Prophet surrounding her, not one bit more knowledgeable about her... mother-in-law and covered in dust. This _really_ isn't how she'd planned to spend her time. 

A few shelves over, two young girls, Slytherins, it so happens, which may be what makes her thoughts drift in a certain direction, are whispering about how someone's allergy to Kneazles had landed him in the Infirmary this morning. They're shushed by someone else close by, and Hermione doesn't spare them another thought. 

Instead she has a touch of guilt that she hadn't brought the books the Professor had lent her and researched Banishing Crooks' fur like she'd promised him. She had told him she would make it a priority, and she _will_... eventually, she's back to guiltily biting her lip even as she thinks it, but it had seemed much more important to research the bond and their rings first. Not that research would _change_ anything now... 

And because _that's_ worked out stunningly well for her... 

It should go without saying that she had no way of _knowing_ that, or even anticipating it, when she'd made her decision on how to allocate her time. The results in no way render that choice less _reasonable_ , only less _fortunate_. But she's not inclined to see things that way just at the moment. 

Sure, the fur collecting Spell was silly, but she _had_ promised, and it's not like she's making progress here either. She sighs and looks at the piles of newpapers around her. She really seems to be failing miserably across the board. 

Luna's Inquiro Searching Charm has made her life _so_ much simpler, no doubt, and 'Snape' had been remarkably easy to search for, but the fact the Professor's mum's maiden name was ' _Prince_ ' is proving significantly less helpful and was the reason for a good many 'Holy Cricket's. Hermione has now been exposed to _two decades_ worth of hearsay and scandal on assorted royal families she never even knew existed, and is becoming increasingly cross at having filled her brain with such a collection of mind-numbing inanities. 

Which isn't to say she hadn't liked Prince Vonundzu's consort's dress at the Ministry's Christmas Gala of... oh, it was some time in the mid-fifties. No, that had been quite pretty. Still, as takes go, it was a ridiculously thin haul for all her work, and far from the intended result. 

She smears a bit more dust across the tip of her nose, ironically as she tries to rub the dust induced itch from it. The gesture _does_ help a little with the immediate urge to sneeze, and fairly late in the process it occurs to her to cast a Tergeo on the papers around her. 

And then on her clothes. Holy Cricket! 

There. _So_ much better. 

Madam Pince really should do that herself once in a while. 

It takes her longer than she'd be willing to admit - but fortunately she doesn't have to - to realise the annoyance she feels isn't solely her own. Once the realisation hits, she listens to the sensation, _really_ opens herself to it, and can tell that the feelings the bond transmits have shifted. It's as though the focus had changed, maybe from a wide-angle to a telephoto lens. The wide spectrum of feelings is just... gone. What's left is sharper, however, and almost more... tangible, if feelings could be described as such, but it seems... They're _concrete_ somehow. Very _real_. The others had seemed more dreamlike, which of course is exactly where they'd originated and reasonably fitting, as descriptions go. 

There's a sharp spike of annoyance that gets through, _very_ sharp, followed immediately by that _nothing_ she's decided only occurs when he's Occluding. 

Which can only mean one thing. 

He's awake!  
  


Hermione had trusted Madam Pomfrey. She'd believed her, _honestly_ , when the Mediwitch said he'd be fine and wake by lunch. But her guilt that he'd been hospitalised because of their bond... Well, it hadn't given her much peace. It's something that sits in the back of her mind and gnaws at her. Without the Calming Draughts, it would have been so much worse. With the realisation that he really _is_ going to be fine... As if _waking_ were the only requirement... But the relief washes over her, almost as if it could rinse the metaphorical blood from her hands. 

Still, things are looking up. Friday those bloodied hands had been all too literal. 

She lets out a short squeal of excitement, nerves mostly. Not at all embarrassing, no. Naturally, it would have been less so if the sixth year Ravenclaw Prefect hadn't been seated nearby and given her the sort of disapproving glower that normally only Madam Pince can Conjure. Or Hermione herself, for much the same provocation, in fact. 

She begins to hurriedly sort the papers back into the correct spots on the shelves, very eager to get to the Infirmary as soon as she possibly can. Only her rampant bibliophilia and deep-seated respect of (almost) all things published keeps her on task. Fine, and fear of engendering more of Madam Pince's wrath, although that's not nearly as prominent a source of motivation as one might think just now. Her irritation with the Librarian is outweighing the respect she usually has for Hogwarts' staff. 

She's rushes out of the Library at a pace too close to a run not to draw another scowl from Madam Pince in passing as she hurries by her desk, but Hermione's far too preoccupied by that point to notice. 

She bursts through the doors and without a thought to the oddness of it, calls for the Baron. He shimmers so quickly into sight beside her that it would be clear he's been waiting were she to stop and consider it, which of course she doesn't in her eagerness. 

"He's awake!" She tells him, her excitment so clear, she's practically vibrating with it, and he finds himself almost beginning to... smile. Odd creature. Still, it is... good that this matters to her. 

With a very formal bow, he waves his arm in a flourish, extending his hand in the direction of the Infirmary, and just stops short of offering her his arm as he straightens with a, "Shall we?"

She's incapable of keeping her pace to a walk and he _does_ smirk now at the rather undignified trot she's doing to get to her destination more quickly. For him it's no issue to float along... faster. It's hardly something for proper society, the inelegant shuffling, half-skipping gait of hers, but if there had been any doubt in his mind after their conversation earlier, it's very clear she... cares about her bondmate's well-being. 

He thinks he finds it... satisfactory. Suitable. Appropriate. He's not certain how the Head will receive that, not at all, but he's coming to suspect it will prove... beneficial in the end. 

They _are_ bonded, after all.

Bondings have fallen out of favour with the current batch of the living. The Baron hasn't personally encountered any bonded in... it may have been nearly two centuries now. He hears two of his House had tried it, not very long ago, perhaps two decades or so, but they'd left school by then, and he never saw them after. Rumour had it - not that he entirely trusts to such things, but there had been no evidence to the contrary - the bonding had ended badly, but that may have been a result of whichever war they were waging at the time. Either way, no one seems to have considered the ancient form of marriage thereafter. 

Until now. 

He fully approves of their bonding for reasons most people of the current century wouldn't place overmuch store in. It honours tradition, which he deems important. More so than is sensible, actually, but he's dead, after all. That has a way of shifting one's values. 

For him, a bonding also speaks of a willingness to commit that he finds tragically lacking in the feckless youth of the present day. The Baron's word was _always_ his bond. If he said he would do a thing, he _would_ do it. He adds ruefully: or die trying. 

That a bond does this at the expense of being unable to dissolve a union that might be proving... disagreeable or in the event of discordant growth of the partners... Those simply aren't his priorities. Nor were they his _experiences_ , which makes it harder for him to truly comprehend why that could prove _crucial_. But to him life, or death for that matter, isn't about _happiness_. And the Baron, as his near millennium of service to the school and his House attests to, has no problem committing to things for the _incredibly_ long term, and little patience for what he perceives as a lack of... perseverance. 

With such strong opinions on issues like these, it's perfectly logical that he often has difficulties relating to the witches and wizards of the present. 

All of which contributes to his unusual tolerance for the witch's unseemly rush through the castle. He's resolved to view it in a positive light. Admittedly he has to keep reminding himself of that, but the woman's ever broadening smile somehow makes that endeavour... simpler.  
  


They've nearly reached the Infirmary when he's hailed from behind. 

"Baron! Baron! There you are!" The Gryffindor House ghost comes whisking up the hallway from behind them. "I've had the portraits... looking for you... everywhere!" Nearly Headless Nick bends over double, resting his hands on his translucent knees, and struggles for breath that will never again fill his lungs. 

The Baron isn't entirely sure if that's affectation, or if the spectre, the youngest by far of the Hogwarts' House ghosts, still has residual habits, lingering from his time... before. With Sir Nicholas, both are strong possibilities. He's also not the quickest to learn, the poor boy. He can often be seen to scratch itches that can't possibly be present. 

The Baron tests his suggestibility every decade or so with things like demonstratively yawning, sneezing or scratching in Sir Nicholas' presence. He's been at that game for easily four and a half centuries now - he'd given the man a handful of decades to acclimate before starting - and so far the Gryffindor hasn't caught on and it remains exceedingly effective. 

One needs to find ways to occupy oneself as a spirit. _Something_ to fill the centuries. 

Besides herding Peeves about the castle. 

Of course, Nick might say of the Baron that he can _also_ occasionally be seen scratching itches that can't possibly be present, but that thought never occurs to either of them. The Grey Lady is a different story.  
  


The Baron waits patiently for Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington to speak. To catch his breath, as were. Madam Snape wavers at his side. This close to their goal, she hates to have anything keep her. On the other hand, she's known Nearly Headless Nick for a very long time now, as she measures time, that is, and she knows his degree of agitation is something to take seriously. 

The two of them had commiserated over their mutual experience with the basilisk a few years ago. All too typically for him, he doesn't quite recognise that it might have been more traumatising for such a young and _living_ person to have been so petrified, and typically enough for _Hermione_ , she doesn't hold that against him. She tries to be inclusive of other life forms and respect their rights and differences. That fact greatly improves their relationship. 

While the Baron doesn't feel it says much for the witch's intelligence - Merlin knows, Sir Nicholas had rhapsodised - it demonstrates yet another instance of her exemplary consideration he's coming to... appreciate. 

Still giving a rather good impression of the thoroughly winded, Sir Nicholas delivers his message, "The portraits... They report... there's fighting in the dungeons. The students... There is no Professor in the vicinity... Someone needs to..." 

"Quite," the Baron answers, cutting things short. He turns to Madam Snape and enquires, "You will be fine the rest of the way without me?"

She gives him an amused but friendly smile, the doors to the Infirmary are mere arm-lengths away. She looks rather pointedly to them and back to the apparition beside her, "I've been managing to open doors successfully for quite some time now. Manually, even, no Alohomora required. I think I'll be able to make it on my own from here." From someone else, he might have taken it for sarcasm, but there's something in the way her eyes reflect her smile, a Duchenne smile, that tells him she's... she's teasing him. The witch truly is passing odd. 

If he were still uncertain, it would have been settled as she takes her leave with a polite and most sincere, "Thank you very much for accompanying me this far, Baron. Please go take care of whatever you need to." There's a slightly shy nibbling of her lower lip and then, "Maybe I'll see you later?" Then she bids both ghosts a surprisingly friendly sounding 'goodbye', the Baron bows in reply, and she disappears into the Infirmary. 

Nick casts a thoroughly baffled look first after Hermione and then the Baron as he in turn disappears down the corridor that will lead him most directly to the dungeons. Shaking his head, Nick finally flits off after his young Housemate, because someone really ought to tell her about that smudge on her face. It made his nose itch just looking at it.

* * *

  


When Dumbledore's Tempus chimes, Ron practically leaps from his seat. "C'mon, Harry. Hurry up." He's half out the door before Harry can follow, and follow he does. Ron has _no_ desire to listen to even one comment more from the Ravenclaws or Macmillan, and even less desire to lose more House points arguing with them about... Well... _things_. 

Harry is left wondering if this is another manifestation of Ron's food obsession, and it's true, he's usually quite punctual to lunch and dinner, both meals having the clear advantage over breakfast of not requiring one to leave the warmth of one's bed to consume them. 

The other, very probable explanation, to Harry's thinking, is Ron's hoping to avoid having to spend any idle time with Hermione. He's been quick to clear out to get away from her after classes, and very obviously willing to be late to appear to them. He may not be the most conscientious student, but the behaviour _has_ been noticeably strange, even for him. 

Harry's quite right in suspecting a method to Ron's actions. The redhead will also want to make sure he's gotten something decent in his stomach as soon as possible, just in case he has to beat a hasty retreat when Hermione arrives. 

As plans go, it's not a bad one. 

However it doesn't account for a certain poltergeist who suddenly manifests with a particularly gleeful cackle. He floats forward, blocking their path to the Great Hall, even Peeves knows it's the lunch hour, and removes the hat specially made for him by Madame Bonhabille, a Parisian artiste of some distinction in her day, in fulfilment of clause three of his contract. 

There's a curious thing about his hat. 

Like all his clothing, in an incredible bit of Charm work, it's able to shift with the poltergeist between the material and immaterial, a crucial distinction between poltergeists and ghosts, as the latter are _always_ incorporeal, merely visible or not. Developing that Charm had taken a monumental effort, but the school founders had been agreed, one really couldn't have the poltergeist wandering about the school naked. It simply wouldn't do. 

When Madame Bonhabille crafted his hat for him, Headmistress Eupraxia Mole had unsealed the 'Headmstr's Handbook' - the name makes Summoning it quite difficult, but she appreciated the egalitarian approach - found the proper Charm, and applied it to the milliner's creation. What she most certainly did _not_ do, as she wasn't a complete clot, was apply an Undetectable Extension Charm to the thing. One really would have to be an absolute _tit_ to do such a thing. 

Or a pair of desperate gingers, caught after curfew by a certain poltergeist.  
  


Four years prior and not too long before they gave Harry a certain map, Fred and George Weasley, fifth years at the time, had been out late one night, sneaking about the castle. They had come to rely quite heavily on said map to guide them past hallway patrols and particularly Filch, who wasn't far off at that moment. What they hadn't considered was that it only showed Peeves' location when he materialised, which he promptly did, as luck would have it and as he's won't to do, only inches behind them. Caught, worse yet with contraband they'd stolen from Filch himself - if he ever found them with that map, they were surely done for - they begged the poltergeist to keep still. Whispered negotiations followed, and finally Peeves agreed to let them go if they performed the Charm on his hat. 

It didn't come off exactly fabulously, but for a couple of fifth years it was a _truly_ impressive bit of work. The space created wasn't huge, by any means, but it could store a week or two's worth of bread, and what more did Peeves have in this world anyway? But it sadly doesn't work to shift the contents of the hat through walls when the poltergeist dematerialises again. Observant students will occasionally note and wonder about piles of old bread lying immediately adjacent to walls, but the house elves tend to spirit them away before they look _too_ much like Bundimun should Peeves fail to reclaim them.  
  


Which helps explain the smile on Peeves' face as he bobs there in front of Harry and Ron, obstructing the corridor with a particularly mischievous grin as he reaches into his hat. Really, had the boys given it any thought earlier, they might have asked themselves how he'd been able to carry so much bread...

Unsurprisingly, they now find themselves headed in the other direction, once again with loaves of bread whizzing past them. That's if they're lucky and the loaves don't strike home.

* * *

  


Albus takes one look at the students still left milling about the classroom and decides Mr. Weasley has the right of it, and he's probably better off leaving too. Miss Patil has him in her sights, if her expression can be trusted, and he's quite sure it can. He avoids another Legilimens, both to conserve energy and because Mr. Macmillan is still rubbing his head from the effects of the last bit of Legilimency Albus had performed. Best not to take unnecessary chances. Miss Patil has positioned herself between him and Severus' office door, not a poorly considered choice given he's twice appeared from there in the past hour alone. She's correct, that's _exactly_ where he'd meant to go now, as well. 

Slightly annoyed at the added inconvenience, he hastens to leave the classroom by the main door, with Miss Patil pushing her way past her classmates in an attempt to reach him, rather hot in pursuit. A clear advantage to youth, their speed. Fortunately Misters Boot, Corner and Macmillan are deep in conversation with Miss MacDougal and blocking Miss Patil's path. They don't respond well to her jostling, and rather predictably fail to clear the way in a timely fashion, which gives Albus a chance to make the safety of the hallway. 

"Professor! Professor Dumbledore, Sir!"

He pretends not to hear her call out as he rushes off, but she manages to break free of the others. 

Padma had been meaning to speak to him at the very first opportunity, and it was too, too fortunate that he'd filled in for Professor Snape this morning. Ever since she heard the rumour that Salome Perks, Smith, whatever, _of all people_ is supposed to have been granted an _apprenticeship_ for next year... An _apprenticeship_! Well! Not that's she's ever heard of anyone _getting_ one, but she'd have thought, as Head Girl, well it seems clear that _her_ chances for something like that, if they were offering, should be excellent, and she'd like to discuss it with him...

She follows him around the next corner only to discover an empty alcove. There's not a trace of him. Thoroughly perplexed, unfamiliar as the young Ravenclaw is with the secret passageways in the castle, she returns to the main corridor and makes her way to the Great Hall for lunch.  
  


Albus, naturally, isn't in any mood to waste time with secret passages. He'd Apparated directly back to his office as soon as he had privacy. It takes its toll, but he has the entire lunch hour to recover. He's skipping the meal and might have a bit of a lie down. He's exhausted. His arm is killing him and isn't that the literal truth. Intent on a restorative nap, he collapses into his desk chair. Well, perhaps not for the entire hour, not if he means to Apparate back. He gives some thought to having Winky bring him back to Severus' office if he still doesn't feel up to it. 

While he weighs his options, he calls for the house elf and has her bring him a bowl of soup and some bread, but his head has nodded down to his chest and he's sound asleep before the elf can reappear with his food. She abuses her ears for a little while for returning with his meal too slowly - not that she had had a prayer of fetching his food before he'd dozed off - and then she decides she's such a disgrace to elves everywhere that it simply doesn't matter anymore. What's another failure more or less? Thoroughly dejected, she returns to the kitchen, her waiting Butterbeer, and the highly unsubtle disapproval of her fellow elves, not a one of whom has the poor taste to be freed.

* * *

  


Tracey Davis follows somewhat closely on the heels of Professor Dumbledore and Patil. Lunch calls, but to be honest, she doesn't like the atmosphere in the room and wants to be well clear of it. The Ravenclaws and Macmillan are nothing but trouble today, and her own Housemates... The boys have been behaving abnormally all morning, the Serpents are clearly weighing on their minds and Theo... He's being even more peculiar yet. 

The letter from his father is seriously affecting him. 

That Protego earlier to shield Patil from the exploding cauldron... Most unusual. And from _Theo_ , no less. Well, it wouldn't normally be necessary because their Head of House generally sorts things like that before _students_ need to take to shielding one another. How absurd. Clearly the Headmaster lacks the requisite experience with Potions or the appropriate respect for the material. She can't wait until their Head is back in charge of the course. 

It had been bad enough with Slughorn last year. Although she still smirks whenever she sees Smith's stripes. That alone might have been worth it. Well, maybe not. 

She watches as Patil reappears from one of the alcoves to walk a short way in front of her as they both proceed to lunch. How just like Ravenclaw to get lost on a path they've taken several times a week for over six years. And to think the stuck up Head Girl hadn't even bothered to thank Theo for his rescue...  
  


Tracey's a clever young woman. If it hadn't been for the political situation with the return of You-Know-Who, there's no question that she would have been the Slytherin girls' Prefect for her year, and not Pansy Parkinson. Bright spark that she is, she had done a fairly accurate read of the room. The seven students left really aren't a good mix.

* * *

  


Hermione stands there, arms somewhat comically akimbo, worry and disbelief abundantly clear on her face and demands of Madam Pomfrey, "What do you mean he's _**gone**_?!"

* * *

  


Severus has done a runner. Well it's perhaps more of a 'slinker' than a 'runner', but he's steadily making his way back to chambers, intent on seeking the comfort of his own damn couch, ta muchly. Or if that bushy haired person's about, maybe his own bed. 

He'd prefer the couch. _And_ some privacy. Naturally. 

Someone will no doubt have commandeered his office for lessons today, and there's really nowhere comfortable there to lie down anyway. Not that he hadn't done rather a lot of lying down in the past several days... No, he's quite tired of the horizontal aspect, but Poppy had been more than correct, it was a truly bad idea to have left the Infirmary so soon, and he desperately needs to rest. 

Oh, for fuck's sake. 

But he just couldn't take the Infirmary any more or all Poppy's fussing. That look of _pity_. Insupportable. Or, and this was probably the straw that broke the camel's back, the idea _Miss Granger_ had been permitted to camp out there by his bedside once more looking equally pity-filled. He'd seen the memory of _that_ all too clearly in Poppy's thoughts. Truthfully, it was probably more guilt than anything else, and almost definitely sympathy and not pity, but Poppy's memories haven't the advantage of conveying Miss Granger's emotions the way that the bond does. 

He was certain, he needed to be well clear of that room and back in his own robes and on his own ground, and that's what he'd determined to do. Even if he accomplishes nothing else for the day, _that_ much he was going to do if it killed him. And from the feeling the bit of exertion causes, it just might. Bloody hell. 

But he's in his own clothes and well shot of the Infirmary. Now he only needs to make it back to quarters. 

He should probably have called for Sunny, to have the elf bring him home, but Poppy hadn't let him out of her sight to do so, and then he was too proud to admit he wasn't up to the walk. 

That's not a good sign. Not at all.

He _should have_ taken the damn Floo. But there again... pride. Poppy had stood there, in front of the fireplace, arms crossed, just challenging him to admit he couldn't make it on foot... He probably deserves this for not standing up to her. If he survives it, maybe it'll be a lesson to him. Bloody Nora. 

His magic is in fine form, however, even if he isn't, and he has himself under a strong Notice-Me-Not and Disillusionment, belts and braces, after all, and he's propped himself against the wall, inching - it certainly feels like inching, but maybe it's footing - his way dungeonwards. 

He's close, _so close_. He can feel his wards, a certain bondmate isn't even present, and he wants nothing more than to enter his chambers, collapse in his chair... Right, _not_ his chair. Fine, on the couch... And not move until said bondmate reappears and chases him from his space. _That_ is the plan. It sounds like a perfectly practicable plan. Highly serviceable. Almost ideal.  
  


And then he hears it. 

Just a little further down the corridor, shouts. Hexes. Screams. 

Coming from _his_ classroom. 

Bloody buggering _fuck_.

* * *

  


Minerva had spent a good portion of class thinking about what to do about Molly and her Howlers or if she should do anything about them at all. She's been teaching the Transfiguration material since the days before Molly herself had been a student at Hogwarts, well over four decades now. On days like today, Minerva does so automatically, teaching by rote while her thoughts turn to other matters. 

Roughly halfway through the the lesson, the solution finally came to her. It struck her as so ridiculous, she had to struggle not to laugh - what would the students think? - but she permitted herself the rest of the class period to properly weigh the pros and cons. As properly as she's currently able anyway. It does _not_ help that she'd listened to two Howlers from the Weasley Matron, well, one and a half, and had the one from Mrs. Devi to prime her. No, she's had quite enough of that.  
  


Minerva watches as Miss Devi scarpers off to lunch, greatly relieved, her Head believes, to _not_ have been blamed for her mum's Howler. And why _would_ Minerva blame her for that? The girl can't be held accountable for her mother's actions, only her own. She considers her plan one last time before deciding she's putting far more thought into it than Molly had, it's probably justified, and then closes her door and takes a seat at her desk. 

Parchment and Dicto-Quill are soon to hand, and she begins to dictate her message. The Dicto-Quill was key to her plan, because it wouldn't do to have her handwriting recognised, and the recipients are all too familiar with it.  
  


Message written, she adds a Galleon to the letter, rolls it up tightly and seals it and heads for the Owlery before she can change her mind.

* * *

  


_Bloody buggering fuck._

Where should Severus start? His classroom door is wide open, three Ravenclaws and one Hufflepuff are in the hallway, as is Zabini, and Hexes are being cast back and forth in rapid succession. The sounds indicate there are more participants, unseen, and his wards confirm for him there are two others in the classroom.

Splendid. 

And of course _that_ would be the thing. Not only is the door open, never mind unlocked... No, whatever are _locks_ for? His classroom's _wards_ haven't even been reset to keep the students _out_ until after lunch. They simply _monitor_. How lovely. That only helps if someone is actually _listening_. That's about as useful as a domesticated Pygmy Puff. And it's enough to make his blood boil. 

He can tell without looking that there's no sign of Albus, because _that's_ one of the things wards are for, ta, and of course that's his first question - unvoiced - where the _fuck_ is the Headmaster? Judging by the writing on the board, he had taught the class. And apparently bunked off at the first opportunity. Probably heard a bag of sherbets calling his name... ' _Albus. Albus._ ' Which means it's up to him to sort this mess. 

Fucking hell. 

He has no choice, not as he sees it anyway, and in the absence of what he'd consider options, he settles for surprising the seven battling students quite thoroughly when he suddenly appears in the doorway with a handful of silent Protegos blocking the current volley of hexes. No one will notice he's misusing the doorjamb to keep himself upright. It's very effective. 

Boot's hex rebounds strongly enough to send the boy sprawling. Severus approves, particularly as the technique the Ravenclaw employed is one he'd taught the boy last year in Defence, nice to know _someone_ was listening, but mostly because he's in a foul mood and misery rather enjoys a spot of company. Boot looks miserable indeed. 

_Good_. 

Ah, he's knocked out a tooth or two. Marvellous. Well, Poppy will have it quickly sorted. That would be the beneficial side of the Densaugeo Spell in the hands of a competent wielder. 

"Ten points from everyone for duelling in the corridors," he informs them, counting on his appearance and tone to put an end to this without further effort. There's an advantage to the never varying uniform of his teaching robes. The students are well conditioned to respond to him in them; when he draws himself up to full height and hisses at them, most jump at his command. 

But not Mr. Nott, however, not today. No, he has to be a royal muppet and quibble. "But we weren't in the hallway, Sir."

Technically, the bothersome lad is correct: he was not. Nor was Malfoy, who was clearly fighting alongside Nott and sports a very red cheek and ear at the moment, the apparent result of an unblocked Stinging Hex. Severus appreciates that, heartily, but imagines he can't award whomever House points for it. Well, not today. He'll be sure to check who did it, though, and make up for that oversight later. 

"Very well," Severus agrees easily enough. He's done the maths and has a better solution. "Only _five_ from those who _weren't_ in the hallway. Nott, Malfoy. Zabini, you should learn from them. And _fifteen_ from those who _were_." 

Slytherin has only clawed back five points off the distinction, but as it cost the Ravenclaw-Hufflepuff contingent twenty more, Theo's deeming it as a success. He looks quite pleased with himself, which is to say he's nearly unrecognisable. Severus can't help wondering what on earth has gotten into the boy. 

Probably _nothing_ that would occur to the Ravenclaws and Macmillan. Guttersnipes. 

Instead, Severus asks the motley group, "And what, pray tell, were you fighting about?" Everyone goes deathly quiet. Yes, he had thought as much. No matter. It was to be expected. He'll have a word with Albus about addressing staff on how to deal with this, so he isn't accused of a personal vendetta, and the witch gets at least a little protection against... this. 

He does a superficial check with Legilimency of his boys present, Draco isn't even bothering to Occlude, which says much, and Severus has to suppress a snort of wry amusement. Ironically, it seems the _Slytherins_ had come to his Muggle-born bondmate's _defence_. 

He leans there letting _that_ sink in for a moment. Will wonders never cease?

There _had_ been a chance, albeit slim he now acknowledges, that the Slytherins had been attacked for a perceived defilement - on Severus' part, naturally - of the young Gryffindor, at the least by association. But no, the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuff had been exceedingly... tawdry in their language regarding her as well. 

Lovely. 

The look on Malfoy's face would indicate he's _very_ well aware of the irony of the situation. The others, of course, have no idea why that should be particularly strange, viewing it solely as House loyalty having defended their Head and his... wife. And Theo, bless, believes he's acting on his father's orders. Merlin's blasted blemished blighted bloated blue bollocks. 

"Nott," he singles the boy out. Theo had apparently rather uncharacteristically led the Slytherin charge after the comments about Severus and his bondmate had been deemed... intolerable. He had challenged them, it would seem defending her... honour. Severus is at a loss for words. And Draco and Zabini fell in beside their Housemate when Boot had responded by throwing the first hex. Now he feels even better about Boot's dental work. "I asked why you were duelling?" 

Theo squares his shoulders and stands up straight. Physically, he's grown quite a lot in the past two years, but slouches so much, forever striving to remain inconspicuous, not without reason, that it generally goes unnoticed. "Sir, it seemed the... best response. But perhaps you should ask the Ravenclaws to what, precisely. I'd suggest asking Boot."

Boot is clutching his mouth and appears to have settled on using the sleeve of his robe to stem the blood flow. To moderate effect. 

"It doesn't look like Boot's going to be answering much of anything," Severus replies, but a little more Legilimency on Nott had revealed why he'd singled the boy out. 

Quite. 

And just like that, he finds himself _incredibly_ comfortable with the damage inflicted. 

The little _tossers_.  
  


Severus' eyes narrow as he looks at the Ravenclaws and Macmillan. Three of them are members of Potter's rag-tag children's wannabe 'army', Miss MacDougal is not. But the utter lackwits had gone up against two of the sons of Death Eaters from the inner circle, and unlike Goyle and Crabbe, the two in question actually have something that passes for brains between their ears. 

Norman Nott, in particular, had been a Death Eater from the outset and is a fount of knowledge sensibly to be feared, and the Malfoys have one of the best libraries in Britain, private or otherwise, highly specialised in the Dark Arts. When their children _fight_ , they fight to _win_. Severus doesn't doubt both Draco and Theo had known more hexes when they started Hogwarts than these other seventh years do even at present. And think what he will of Zabini at the moment, which is virtually nothing, the boy is far from incompetent with his wand, and bright enough to learn from the others in his House. 

No, those four had deserved everything they got, for their stupidity as well as for their... commentary. 

Macmillan's eyes are swollen tightly shut and crusty, a well chosen attack by Nott that had rendered the Head Boy less than useless in the fight, uncomfortable enough to be punitive, but harmless enough to have left Theo undeserving of a stronger punishment. Severus commends his selection. He suspects Macmillan isn't all that much use anyway, but it had left him unable to cast with any efficiency, was easily reversible, assuming one knew the Countercharm, and obscure enough that one could safely assume none of the others _did_. Well he won't lift it himself, either. Let his friends lead him to the Infirmary and have Poppy sort it. She's suddenly found herself with time on her hands after all. 

It seems Malfoy had subjected Boot to a variant of the hex _Potter_ had meant to use on him in their skirmish in much the same location their fourth year. For reasons Severus can understand only too well, Draco found some justice in that, and even more amusement that a seventh year was unable to defend against what had been a fourth year's hex. So much for Potter's training of his troops. The variations applied have ensured Boot looks even worse than Goyle had at the time, which had seemed unlikely, but the proof is in the pudding, as they say. He looks very much like something that only grows in the darkest cave, and probably is best _left_ there on balance. No, he wasn't a pretty sight. Well, he could escort Macmillan, then, sending Poppy two for the price of one. 

Corner's nose was broken and Miss MacDougal's is swollen to the size of a small melon, both Hexes quickly done by Zabini, and the resultant inability to speak clearly had also diminished the threat they represented in the duel. Severus again appreciates the elegance of that, although breaking fellow students' bones tends to carry a stiffer punishment, or _should do_ in a just world. Their world isn't particularly just. 

But presumably if one is a member of _faculty_ , he finds breaking a student's bones _perfectly_ acceptable... 

He wonders briefly about the incidence of two nose related charms, which seems an improbable concentration of spellwork. Legilimency answers that. There had been some speculation if his _own_ nose size in anyway reflected on his other... endowments, he hadn't expected _that_ from Miss MacDougal, and Corner had apparently wondered rather crassly about how he put said nose to use... during the act, as it were. The comments hadn't sat well with Zabini, and he'd allowed his anger to lead his wand. 

Zabini is a vain and pretty thing, less orientated towards power than his roommates, and far more concerned with looks. It reflects both his personal assets and his upbringing. His mother's climb to success can be traced primarily to her exceptional beauty, although men's stupidity in the face of it and her own deftness with poisons played significant contributing roles. Blaise is an outlier. His roommates all have been raised to respect, to _value_ power, strength, speed, and knowledge _far_ more than beauty. One's attractiveness is of no substantial aid against a Crucio. The boy's priorities being as they are, Severus suspects, rightly so, that his own appearance is something Zabini finds somewhat embarrassing about his Head of House. That had left Zabini particularly vulnerable to the Ravenclaws' disparaging comments. 

Severus isn't much fussed by remarks on his appearance, he's far too used to it and cares a good deal more about things that _actually_ hurt him. Like Crucios or Sectumsempras. But the speculation about his sex life, particularly in the complete and utter and highly regrettable _absence_ of the same, leaves him more than a little... peeved. Unsurprisingly, he decides to apply the Episkey to Corner himself, comfortable in the knowledge it _will_ hurt and leave a rather noticeable bump. Corner can always have Poppy sort that, but then it would hurt again, and most choose not to. Severus is quite satisfied with leaving the boy that choice. 

He somewhat grudgingly also sorts Miss MacDougal's nose with a 'Reducio Proboscis'. There's no added benefit to _his_ having done so, it's simply expected of him as a teacher, if he knows the Countercharm that is. But no one in their right mind would _ever_ believe he of all wizards doesn't know the word for 'nose'. She stands there rubbing hers, which he imagines is throbbing most markedly. He knows that from personal experience thanks to a similar Hex Black had applied on him in their fourth year. Bloody mutt...

Nott and Zabini are untouched. He'd probably be proud of that if he weren't so universally displeased with his boys. Although he may be thawing a little with regards to Nott. Draco is clearly sporting the results of a Stinging Hex, and Severus has to wonder why. That's something the boy should have been able to easily deal with. There's a possibility that he'd been too occupied with his own hexing of Boot, but... In light of the Unbreakable Vow that ties Draco's safety very closely to his own, under the correct circumstances at least, he feels the need to investigate that more closely. 

The results are unexpected.  
  


Draco had had the drop on Miss MacDougal. She had fired against Zabini, he'd blocked it, and Draco had her squarely in his sights. And then he froze. Draco would _never_ underestimate a woman. It isn't sexism. Not with his overfamiliarity with what his aunt can do. No one who knows Bellatrix would _ever_ think a witch less capable than a wizard. No. 

He'd had Severus' words bouncing around his head, and they'd stayed his wand. 

_'If I_ ever _see you behaving in an untoward fashion towards a female classmate again, the pieces in which I shall leave you will be_ so _small and_ so _scattered, they'll never recover more than a_ thimbleful _. Have I made. Myself. Clear?'_

And Draco _hadn't cast_. 

He didn't hex the young woman, Muggle-born or not. 

Miss MacDougal had taken advantage of the opening, furious at the attack on Boot, and landed the Stinging Hex, landing a good one. Severus approves, both of her technique - the intent was solid and there was no hesitation - _and_ her target, although her quips about his own... attributes leave him less inclined to give her the House points for the Hex than he'd been disposed to a few minutes ago. And immediately after, Zabini had gotten in the Engorgio Proboscis Hex on her nose. 

Even more interestingly, Severus may have to revise his position on the effects of physical attraction while duelling. It seems Draco finds the Ravenclaw... fetching, which _had_ in fact made it at least slightly more difficult for him to Hex her. The blond Slytherin appears to have a weakness for highly intelligent Muggle-borns. 

He certainly has a type. 

Severus makes a concerted effort to avoid thinking about how that's something they might have in common; _especially_ in his present situation, it's something he'd really rather not consider. But in fact their reasons for the attraction _aren't_ entirely the same. For Draco, there's some appeal in a Muggle-born's knowledge of things with which he is unfamiliar, for Severus, by contrast, it's a comprehensible gravitation towards a shared history. But the allure intelligence exerts is very much the same for them both.  
  


Hmm. 

It's all very unexpected. Well, except for the all _too_ expected, naturally. Severus finds himself wondering if he could have actually _reached_ Draco.  
  


"Ten points _to_ Slytherin each for Nott, Malfoy and Zabini for defending their Head of House. And thirty from Ravenclaw and ten from Hufflepuff for... denigrating a staff member... and his... spouse."

Predictably, that's instantly met with noises of complaint from their quarter. His lip curls dangerously. "Would you care to repeat what you said that led to this?" And _that's_ instantly met with silence. Yes. He _does_ appreciate it, greatly, when students remain predictable. It does away with that nasty element of surprise. 

"No, I thought not. I think ten points might have been too conservative. Macmillan, you're the Head Boy." There's something about the way Snape says it that could make one think he has no respect _at all_ for the position. "This is unacceptable and thoroughly unbecoming behaviour." Given that's the _second_ time Ernie is hearing that with the last half an hour, one might hope he would take it to heart, but the 'Head Boy' title has gone to his head, and he _really_ isn't the soul of self-reflection. 

Knowing Pomona's tendency towards leniency, Severus continues, "Twenty points from Hufflepuff, and report to Mr. Filch after dinner tonight. As for the rest of you, I shouldn't like to be unfair." Two of them have the sense to become worried, but Terry might be too distracted by his current circumstances to think it through as well. "Perhaps I'll allow your Head of House to decide how many points to remove. We'll just have Professor Flitwick make the final determination, shall we?" 

When he tells Filius what they'd said - in explicit detail - over lunch tomorrow, the Charms Master will take thirty points from each of them. _And_ have no desire whatsoever to continue his meal. It transpires he's no more fond of envisioning Severus... canoodling than Minerva. And of course Filius will be thoroughly disgusted by his students' behaviour. He will, however, have reason to regret the speech he later gives them in which he praises Severus' willingness to bond Miss Granger to keep her safe in the current turbulent climate.  
  


"Boot, Macmillan, go to Madam Pomfrey and get... that sorted." He gestures mostly towards Terry's face. Morag's eyes track the movement, her gaze appraising. If she's been contemplating his... endowments, she's _certainly_ given his hands a fair amount of thought. "Corner, I leave it to you if you think you still require the Matron's help. Now leave. 

"You three, remain."

When the rest have gone, and the Snakes are alone amongst themselves, he turns first to Draco. "Malfoy, I'm surprised to find you fighting this particular battle." The accompanying smirk is enough warning to all present. 

Draco does his best to echo Theo's posture. He stands tall, not quite as tall as Theo, of course, but that isn't the point. His shoulders back, he meets Severus' gaze and with just a touch of something about his eyes that belies the simplicity of his words, replies, "I was taught to respect my Head of House. And his wife." 

Severus nearly laughs. Yes, he _had_ been taught that. Via Crucio and just last night. He appreciates a spot of self-deprecating humour and occasionally a touch of cheek. It's a hint, a very faint hint but still distinguishable, of the boy Draco had been before everything went so badly wrong. With a slight nod that only Draco reads correctly he responds, "A lesson well learnt it would seem. 

"Zabini, take your cues from Nott. He's blessed with at least a little sense." If Theo had looked satisfied before, he's rapt now. 

Severus has to struggle a little to get the next words over his lips, but he also has to accept that their compromised understanding of the situation is completely his own doing. He needs to treat them consistently based on what they currently know, what they _will come to know_ , and who he is supposed to be, at least as far as they are concerned. He'd still prefer to Hex the lot of them. "I... appreciate your efforts today on behalf of myself... and my bondmate. 

"You've done your House credit, which definitely makes for a... pleasant change." The sarcasm works for every version of this. Theo's proud and eager nod and Malfoy's reddening face proves _that_ quite clearly. "See that it remains that way." The warning is obvious. 

"Going forward, I expect you to treat her," no specification is required, "with respect, am I clear?" Three heads nod immediately, and he proceeds. 

" _Do_ make an effort not to be caught duelling in the weeks to come. You may assume most Professors won't bother to make the distinction between who is in the corridors or not, and not everyone will be concerned with the _reasons_ for the fighting.

"You are dismissed. Go. Lunch is waiting."  
  


Having cast themselves _very_ demonstratively as Madam Snape's defenders, and word spreads quickly, they'll be far too prideful and stubborn to reverse position in the days to come. Severus will decide to see the humour in that; it's better than the alternatives. And Hermione will find herself with more Slytherins guarding her back than she could have ever imagined.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Miscellaneous stuff.
> 
> First - Credit where credit is due... Just to be clear: **Peeve's contract is a thing according to Pottermore** ; but it does not appear in the books and definitely not in the films, where Peeves is sadly also a no-show, so I wouldn't exactly worry if you haven't heard about it. Original: https://www.pottermore.com/writing-by-jk-rowling/peeves Relevant excerpt: https://harrypotter.wikia.com/wiki/Peeves'_contract
> 
> I've mentioned last year sucked; it really did. For one pithy highlight, I spent about three months pretty much not able/supposed to use both of my arms and hands thanks to a diagnostic thing going badly wrong. Probability of that was roughly 1 in 40k. I have some truly... incredible luck. (And of course that made the hand issues this winter even more welcome. It seemed like I'd only just gotten the use of my mitts back... For about three whole months... Brilliant.) Some of you will have recognised that as it was the _diagnostic_ that went pear shaped, it still left the original problem to continue sucking as well. What can I say, it was a summer of great joys. 
> 
> For want of a better idea, amongst other things, I spent a silly amount of time basically reading the Harry Potter wiki / Pottermore to distract myself. And I thought, as one does as an overly-cerebral type effectively locked in her head for a quarter, suddenly transmogrified from person to patient, wouldn't it be nice to take some of those obscure little bits of Potter-lore and weave them into a story. That, by the way, is also why it's so darn long. I had a _lot_ of time to think. 
> 
> So in an effort to not bore people like Trickster32, who know and can cite more Potter trivia than I ever will, I decided it would be fun to reimagine some of that. Like, say if there _is_ a contract for Peeves, it might just be mentioned in 'Hogwarts: A History' or be the topic for discussion at dinner if one or the other of your parents were a solicitor... 
> 
> If I'm doing what I set out to, it shouldn't always be clear where my stuff starts and JKR's ends. I'm also not sure how to handle that properly. 'Anything you recognise...' hardly covers it if I'm deliberately fishing out lesser known things. If anyone's got a constructive suggestion on that, it would be appreciated. 
> 
> Failing that, there's always disclaiming like the above. _*shrugs*_
> 
> Second - I wanted to **thank you for sticking with this through the admittedly unusual choice to hospitalise Severus this long**. (Yeah, sure, that may or may not reflect some of my own recent experiences...) I _know_ that's not the way it's generally done. Thanks for trusting me enough anyway to keep reading. Or enjoying it despite that. (Clearly, that would be preferable... ;-)) Every single hit sets my little heart aflutter... (Although that might be arrhythmia, who knows at this point...)
> 
> If it makes anyone more comfortable, I can assure you Severus doesn't even set booted (or bare) _foot_ in the Infirmary for another two weeks (so what's that? fifty? one hundred? chapters... heh.), and then it's more of a visit for a brief chinwag. Ah, and he may take a spa day in a Swiss clinic about then, too, just saying, but that hardly counts. 
> 
> As a matter of fact, I don't hospitalise him (or Hermione) again for _months_. And then only briefly. 
> 
> So we're probably back to more common story telling devices now. 
> 
> Third - **I'd also really like to thank each and every one of you that's hit the Kudos button, bookmarked or subscribed.** (Special mention to those loyal anonymous people who regularly do so, because I'm reasonably sure I have more Kudos than readers at this point. Thanks guys!) You do a _lot_ to encourage me. Encouragement is good. _*nods*_
> 
> **And I _especially_ want to thank the magnificent peeps who regularly comment.** You guys really make my day and 'thanks' isn't enough.  <3\. It really isn't. 
> 
> Much love,  
> Ginger xox


	72. 11 11l Tuesday - Sub-Optimally 2 Idiots and Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hermione, Severus, the Bloody Baron, Minerva, Albus, Harry, Ron, Ginny, Sybill Trelawney, Sarah Sapworthy, Barrymore Beckford, Seamus, Morag MacDougal, Michael Corner, Draco, Theo, Blaise, Sunny, Romilda, Lavender, Fay, Georgina, Demelza, Kiera, Parvati, Colin, Neville, Kevin, Peeves, Filius, Call-Me-Terry Taylor, Lisa Turpin, Anthony Goldstein, Belle Chambers, Brian Bradley, Myrtle, mentioned: Fred and George, Molly, Poppy, Pomona, Eileen Snape_

Minerva's father was a Minister, and she used to love listening to him read from the Bible. She isn't remotely religious herself. As a witch, all too often she'd pondered how many of the things called miracles were truly magic instead. That isn't conducive to faith. But one of her favourite stories was of King Solomon, who had asked for wisdom, and his sage judgment. 

She's been wondering if she has any more right to take Molly to task for the Howlers than Molly had to send them. She decided the justification lay in her responding to a thoroughly inappropriate action on Molly's part, whereas Molly's actions had been a presumption. She is all too aware that Molly would also see her own sending of the Howlers as a response to precisely the same: a thoroughly inappropriate action, because that was _obviously_ how she saw the bonding. Merlin knows, if the excerpt from the _first_ Howler hadn't given it away, the second _definitely_ did. That makes it tricky, as Minerva has no desire to fall victim to the same self-delusions as the Weasley matriarch. 

The difference is probably the injurious nature of the Howler. Except what she means to do is also injurious, in the strictest sense of the word. Ah, but then the bonding _hadn't_ been. The only two to suffer from that are the two involved. They've done no harm to anyone else. Molly cast the first stone. 

Well Minerva means to cast another. 

She feels she's hit upon a fair solution.  
  


She will let the woman's own children decide. 

That's not exactly an accurate description, in as much as they won't be in full possession of the facts, but she has in her hand an owl order for a Weasley's Wheeze and a Galleon to pay for it. She knows all too well that they send out their Potions labelled innocuously as Cold Remedies and such like. She's requested a Silencing Syrup be sent to the woman labelled as a bespoke tonic for a sore throat. After those two Howlers, Merlin knows the witch must have one. 

As she sees it, Fred and George will know full well what will happen to their mother if she takes it. They could always refuse Minerva's anonymous custom. If Molly had raised her children anything like properly, they would do just that. 

Minerva is practically certain they won't.

* * *

  


As the boys disappear around the next corner, Severus tries to scrape together the energy to pry himself loose from the support of the doorframe. When he finally does - it takes him far longer than he'd like, and he's extremely glad there are no witnesses - he closes and locks the door and then resets the wards on his classroom. He's still thinking _very_ dark thoughts about Albus, but he's beginning to worry now if this is any indication of how poorly the man's health is doing. He fears very much that it is. 

Lost in his contemplations, not the least because he really has no desire to be forced to act on his Unbreakable Vow to Albus _ever_ , and certainly no time _soon_ , he's miserably contemplating the ramifications of that, when with a start he notices the Bloody Baron hovering in place next to him. 

Naturally.

Apparently the spectre had been there for some time, only becoming visible once the students left. And _that_ would be an obvious shortcoming in his wards. Fuck. He may need to find a solution to that, or no later than when he's assumed the Headmaster's chair will he have to worry about ghosts being actively used to spy on him. 

On the other hand, it will need to occur to the others to instrumentalise them so. 

He may not need to worry after all. 

But he conscientiously adds it to the list of things Albus should be working to solve while he's busy faffing about with Merlin's fucking Potions. 

He _really_ needs to stretch out in his chair. Which is no longer _his_ chair anymore... Fine, right, stretch out on his couch then. He's becoming increasingly cross, with almost fucking everything, which is in direct correlation to how long he's been on his feet, and he can still hear Poppy telling him he shouldn't be leaving the Infirmary yet. 

Somehow, that doesn't improve his mood. 

A little more annoyed with the universe that the ghost had been able both to eavesdrop, not that it matters, but it _could have_ , and take him by surprise, he tries to get himself better under control and face the apparition. "Baron?"

The Baron hasn't missed the beads of sweat on the Head's brow, or the fact he'd remained immobile the whole while he was managing the students. After the things Madam Snape has told him, he has a very clear idea of why that may have been. With some concern, he asks the wizard, "Shall I fetch your wife, Sir?"

Severus stands there blinking. For no sum of Galleons would he ever have imagined _that_ to come from the ghost's mouth. _Shall he fetch his wife??_ Oh, by _all_ means. _Do_... 

He knows, _he knows_ the witch had fetched him from the snow last night. Beyond the embarrassment attached to needing such a rescue, and he's _thoroughly_ mortified about _that_ , he's _incredibly_ angry with himself for having put her in danger like that. Past curfew, outside the safety - and isn't that a cruel joke - of the castle's gates... He expects a thorough bollocking from Albus when next they speak about just that. The bond was supposed to keep her _safe_. Not a day later, it had effectively lured her off of the Hogwarts grounds. 

If for no other reason than the Protection Vow he'd taken, this... This will be a problem. 

And here his House ghost wants to know if he should _fetch his wife_. Certainly, because she's now his _carer_. Bloody hell. 

There's a niggling question in the back of his mind as to how Miss Granger had been able to leave the castle grounds last night. And then another as to why she had even _needed_ to do so. Why hadn't Sunny brought him to the Infirmary himself? Merlin knows, the elf has done so often enough in the past. Whenever he can't make it himself, in fact. The only explanation for that is Sunny watches him, either in person or through some elven magic, and in an effort to preserve what little is left of Severus' pride, only assists when he won't manage the trip on his own. Severus tries not to think too much about how the elf is basically humouring him, completely missing that it would be more accurate to see it as a kindness. 

But of course it doesn't explain why Sunny hadn't done so last night. 

Severus hasn't answered the Baron. He really can't seem to find an answer, and so the apparition speaks again, "Sir? You are unwell." That was definitely a statement and not a question. Marvellous. Good to know it's so obvious. That neglects to consider that the Baron is in fact a very keen observer, once one has his attention focused. That latter _can_ be difficult, but _Hermione_ has already achieved it. "Allow me to get her for you, please."

Severus decides a polite response is probably the wisest course of action, particularly in light of the assistance the ghost is providing him with managing his bondmate's safety, and in the absence of effective means to _force_ that assistance were the Baron unwilling. "Thank you, but there's no need to trouble her." But his breathing isn't precisely even, and if one isn't a cowed student fearing point loss or detention, one's far more likely to notice that. The Baron looks unconvinced. 

"She wouldn't consider it trouble." And _now_ he sounds convinced. Severus just stares at him some more. Worse yet, he's reasonably sure the damn ghost is right. She _wouldn't_. He has that image of her perched by his bed from Poppy's memories. It had shot through her thoughts when he told her he was leaving her care, as she had tried to explain he _couldn't_ , amongst other reasons because 'Madam Snape' had planned to join them for the luncheon. It was too... absurd, and fully representative of half the reason he needed to escape to begin with. 

"I'll be fine," he assures the ghost, which he also finds highly unusual. 

The Baron _isn't_ used to discourse with the living, and it often shows, for example I'm moments such as these when he tells Severus, "You are incredibly fortunate."

Having basically crawled - if one can do so vertically, that's _precisely_ what he'd done, using both hands to support himself against the walls - his way back to the dungeons, Severus fails, entirely, to see how he can be considered 'fortunate'. Why yes, he's feeling _exceptionally_ lucky. And just what was it that made him so? The second round of torture in days? Or any of the _other_ innumerable joys in his existence... Ta. Ta, muchly. 

Not unsurprisingly, he's not exactly receptive to whatever the Baron is trying to convey. When the Baron doesn't proceed, Severus just thanks him, vaguely, because he can't begin to imagine for _what_ , thinking, _hoping_ it will be the best way to wind this up. 

That, as his luck would have it, knocks the next thought from the spectre's lips. "Your wife is a good woman. You have chosen well." 

Again, there is no suitable response. There really isn't. He has a sinking feeling the witch has somehow... _gotten to_ the Baron, and isn't that... Well, that just doesn't happen. Fortunately, and here Severus _does_ consider himself fortunate, the ghost is convinced his condition is poor enough to justify these pauses. He finally settles on "Thank you. That's nice of you to say." He gives it a bit of thought and then decides to use the Baron for intelligence gathering. 

"Where did you last see her?" That was a mistake. The response is swift, the rebuke crystal clear. 

"In front of the doors to the Infirmary, where she meant to join you for the meal." Splendid! He walked right into that one. 

Something in the weariness visible on the Head's face coupled with the emphasis Madam Snape had placed on the terrors he must have faced, only yesterday in fact, causes the Baron to relent, to... soften. "You would do well to give the witch a chance," he tells him more gently. "She's very... kind." And then with a bow, he floats off to resume his duties respective said witch, as clearly she isn't taking her afternoon meal with the Head as planned. 

Severus stands there. Dumbstruck. That _may_ have been a practical recommendation regarding his compromised physical condition. It's _possible_. Or, and this is what has him so unnerved, he has just received advice _from the Baron_ as to his _love life_... 

No. Words.

No. Wait. He has three more words. With. A. _Student_. 

Certain a migraine is now coming on, just to add to the day's manifold pleasures, and feeling like his world has been turned thoroughly upside down, he slinks the few yards back to his chambers, intent only on finally reaching his couch.

* * *

  


Sybill has to think long and hard before deciding to go into the Great Hall for the third meal in a row. Ultimately she determines that all signs point to her having survived breakfast, as unpleasant as _that_ was - the fact that everyone else does so more or less on a daily basis is of absolutely no consequence - and lunch has the obvious advantage of no owls. And no owls means no Howlers. 

She feels cheated by the calamity that had been the breakfast meal, she still very much wants to see people's reactions to her Prophecy, gods damn it, and she knows that will happen first and foremost where everyone can see her outside of a classroom setting. Her sitting there right in front of them should get their attention. Should set tongues to wagging. She's counting on Miss Brown. Or perhaps the Patils. 

She has an almost good feeling about this. Something good is likely to happen if she subjects herself to one more meal in public. Probably. With something vaguely resembling confidence, she takes a seat next to Barrymore Beckford, the Ghoul Studies Professor in one of the side arms to the High Table. 

"Sybill," he greets her, friendly enough, although the note of surprise in his voice is clear. Barrymore lives in Hogsmeade, doesn't usually eat breakfast or dinner at the castle, and so hadn't seen her at either of the last two meals. It's a bit of a Knut toss, though, if her third appearance in succession is more of a surprise to the others than this first one is to him. 

"Barrymore," she replies with a bow of her head. "I can see you will be well." She waves her hands portentously, another dramatic proclamation rolling from her lips. 

Barrymore takes it in his stride, or seat, more accurately. He's used to her ways. He appreciates that she's good enough not to constantly predict _his_ doom. At his age, that might prove a little worrisome. He's exceedingly old, no one seems to know quite _how_ old, but he's older than Albus and even some of the ghosts. 

The last several decades, he's occasionally been told he looks like Einstein, perhaps with wilder hair. 'Einstein', he gathers, was something of a Muggle magician dating from long after he had left the Muggle world. Of course, _most_ things dated from long after he had... well, _anything_ really, he was just _that_ old. But possibly this Einstein person was involved in something like Transfiguration. He has no idea what the man looked like, but as he knows what he _himself_ looks like, he can only assume he was a frightfully handsome devil. 

Sybill is working herself up to a state of indignation that she's required to sit at the side arm, more than slightly irked that there's no room for her at the main table. For a Seer of her caliber, and as a full-time resident Professor of an elective to be made to sit with the part-time help, the instructors of _extra-curricular_ classes... Typically, she ignores the fact entirely that it would be silly to keep a spot free for her given the infrequency with which she would be willing or likely to use it. She's too busy feeling slighted to be logical. 

Barrymore recognises the signs, he really _has_ known her too long, and without taking offence returns his attention to the current Professor of Ancient Studies seated to his other side, who seems to think Barrymore himself is something of a candidate for study. He's not sure whether he should objectively be insulted or flattered, but has a cheerful bent that permits him to see the humour in it. 

Sybill is now busy fixating on Rolanda, who _somehow_ merits a seat at the main table, despite only teaching _Flying_ to Firsties and doing that horrible _sports_ thing... Frankly, people are far too fond of such frivolities; their priorities are _all_ wrong. Rolanda's residence at the castle or regular attendance at meals are _obviously_ not factors to take into consideration for seat assignment. The only thing that could be worse for Sybill's ego would be were they to invite the _Nag_ to join them. But presumably Dobbin has a manger of his own somewhere... 

And in the midst of this little snit, Sarah Sapworthy, Professor of Xylomancy and yet _another_ part-timer, merrily slides into the free seat next to her. 

"Hi, Sybill! How nice of you to join us." Sybill may have grunted something that Sarah takes as a response and the pretty brunette continues, "I heard about your 'prediction' yesterday. _Clever_ bit of work, my compliments."

Sarah has a great deal in common with Sybill that neither would ever care to acknowledge out loud. She's the granddaughter of Selina Sapworthy, renowned author of texts in the fields of Herbology and Divination. The Herbology text alone has been required reading at the school for over a quarter century. It had almost been predestined that Selina's interests would eventually lead her to Xylomancy and yet another best selling text, somewhat less creatively entitled 'Xylomancy'. 

It had _also_ been nearly predestined that her granddaughter, an enterprising Ravenclaw just a few years behind Sybill, should capitalise on her famous ancestor's success and strike out in the same field. Selina had _literally_ written the book on the subject. Most people confronted with the surname have a way of associating it with an intrinsic skill at the discipline which may be about as accurate a description of Sarah's abilities as Sybill's own. 

Sybill, naturally, takes the compliment the wrong _and_ right ways, each as suits her disposition. She assumes, correctly, that Sarah calls the legitimacy of the 'Prophecy' into question, as virtually all staff _should_. They _knew_ she'd had prior information of the bondings; the more astute could see how she'd extrapolated from there. Sybill also assumes, incorrectly, that the 'compliment' is a dig at her for relying on such base tricks to legitimise her standing as Divination Professor. 

That couldn't be further from the truth. Sarah sincerely appreciates the twist of mind that had enabled her colleague to alight upon that stroke of genius, and is very much of an inclination to do the same, circumstances permitting. 

Sybill is now even more annoyed, the noise in the Hall only contributing to her pique. That's always the danger, obviously, when other people are aware that you had the information in advance. It's why it's so important to add some detail not included in that information. And of course, why it's crucial to do your reconnaissance properly, so that you _can_. 

The personalities involved being as they are, it's also predestined that Sybill initially thinks Sarah is trying to insult her, gets quite shirty and runs her off. It doesn't take her more than three sentences to do so, insulting Sarah's field (twigs!), her abilities (specious at best!) and questioning her utility at the school (none!), instructing only the single extra-curricular as she is. Not that's it's any less than Sybill does, but the comments strike home. Had she not inherited the cottage in Hogsmeade, how ever would she secure her living?

The witch rises to leave, looking rather hurt and browbeaten, with a, "I'm very sorry. Clearly, I was mistaken." 

Sybill counts it as a triumph. Next time she thinks she should be able to manage it in only two sentences. Of course, having hurt the witch's feelings as thoroughly as she had, there's not likely to be a next time any time soon.

Barrymore observes the exchange with a sad shake of his head.  
  


Once Sarah has left, and she's a largely delightful colleague who definitely deserved better than being chased off, tail between rather comely legs, he leans over to Sybill and softly tells her, his voice pitched so only the two of them can hear, "Even Seers sometimes don't see what's right before their eyes."

At first she wonders if that's a slight because of her vision, Cassandra knows, she's had enough of those. Without losing patience, he tries again, "Sybill, don't be so blind." She bristles, but it's difficult to become truly angry faced with his kind eyes. "Go after her. _Talk_ to her. I think you'll find you're more alike than you know." Of course, with his lifetimes of experience, he sees and recognises far more than most. 

Sybill rises, impulsively grabbing a plate of food and takes it with her to the staff room where she discovers her colleague looking a bit crestfallen. Sybill's lacking in social graces, Merlin knows, her self-imposed isolation doesn't help matters any, but she somehow still inelegantly extends the plate and offers the other woman something to eat.

"You didn't really have anything to eat out there," she jerks her head back towards the closed door to the Great Hall. 

Sarah, whatever her inadequacies in her subject might be, which perhaps are not of any more significance when contrasted to Sybill's, more than compensates with her deportment. She brightens immediately, and the two soon tuck in together. It doesn't take the younger witch long at all to have Sybill convinced of her sincerity, and they begin to analyse yesterday's 'Prophecy' and consider if there's any more ground to be gained, 'predictions' milked from the bondings. 

Sybill is half stunned to hear herself saying it, but soon enough she's telling her colleague about those Slytherin mail snakes and their arrival this morning, and the two find themselves crafting another 'Prophecy' for Sarah to deliver to her afternoon classes. Sybill acknowledges Sarah has the seventh year students this afternoon, where she does not, and it would undoubtedly be more... relevant coming from Sarah directly to _them_. 

When Professor Sapworthy stands before class after lunch and announces that she Sees, "Three little snakes bringing the biggest snake of them all to his knees..." Well, it will stick in more minds than just Blaise's and be the source of quite some speculation after Draco opens his Serpents later this afternoon. 

Sybill has a brief pang, a moment of self-doubt where she feels a little used, and wonders if she has been. That fades quickly when with a truly brilliant smile Sarah invites her round to hers for dinner tonight, a small cosy affair, "You bring the sherry."

It should be noted that neither witch even once regretted not staying to observe the fruits of their 'Prophecies' at the evening meal. No, their perfectly delightful evening far off from the noise of the castle proves to be the first of many, and the two Ravenclaws learn to put more than just their heads together.  
  


Barrymore, obviously, had seen it coming.

* * *

  


Harry and Ron burst through the doors to the Great Hall with the sort of dramatic energy about them that attracts attention. Sure enough, that attention is rewarded when a moment later a loaf of bread sails past Ron's head, only missing because Harry's Protego was sufficient to deflect it. Unfortunately it deflects right into the back of poor Kevin's head, sending the fifth year Gryffindor hurtling face first onto the table in front of him. As he's not the most sympathetic member of their House, that gives rise more to laughter than indignation. 

Colin even takes a picture. He's amassing quite the collection, even just counting those of Kevin alone. Of course, Kevin has a way of providing some excellent photo opportunities. 

Trial and error - somehow Harry and Ron have found themselves with plenty of opportunity for _that_ this morning - reveals that a 'Protego' works against the physical as well as magical. Good to know. Hermione could have told them that. The first historically recorded use of the Shield Charm was during a good old fashioned Muggle joust in the fifteenth century, for goodness' sake, which was _obviously_ a non-magical application. _Really_... But the boys weren't aware of that little bit of lore having never read Miranda Goshawk's 'Book of Spells'. As one does on a rainy Sunday afternoon... 

But of course, Hermione's not likely to read it again anytime soon unless she sorts that pesky little problem about her restricted access to the Restricted Section. Everyone has their own curse to bear...

More than a few students have had similar experiences with airborne viands, and they're not the least surprised to see Peeves appear soon after, the next loaf in his hands. A few, presumably those with _more_ experience, reach for the trays on the tables before them, which they unceremoniously empty - the more considerate on plates, but a few desperate types have little compunction about dumping the contents on the tables - and hold them up as shields against the Poltergeist's bombardments. That works even better than a Protego. 

Faculty are still more effective against the Poltergeist than trays or Protegos, and as one might imagine, a fair few can be found in the Great Hall at any given meal. Filius is up and has his wand drawn, and any observing can see the signs he'd been a fine duellist in his day. His stance is excellent, marred only by the fact it's almost entirely hidden by the High Table. Taylor soon follows suit, sensing that it's a poor job when the DADA Professor is beaten to the draw by the Charms Instructor. He forgets that his colleagues often are gifted with more than the skills required for their subjects, possibly because _he's_ not too terribly gifted at his own. 

Peeves slows, staring at those two wands, considering his options. Soon a few more follow suit. Professor Beckford adds his voice to the threat of his wand and bellows 'Peeves' in an appropriately respect-inducing fashion - Filius' squeak hadn't _quite_ done the trick and had in fact been completely overheard against the ambient noise in the Hall. Yet again. 

A little reluctantly, Peeves recognises the timing isn't right. No worries. He has all sorts of time on his hands. If he can't reach Potty and Weasel now, there's always later. With a laugh and a careless shrug that could suggest he doesn't care at all that he's been - momentarily - stopped, he treats one and all to a truly impressive raspberry before he turns on his heel and disappears through the now closed doors of the Hall.  
  


Harry nods his thanks to the High Table as Ron collapses onto the bench before him. He's not the least put off that his meal is now on the table instead of a tray, although somewhat confused as to _why_ , having missed it in his own preoccupation with Peeves. He simply helps himself from the food scattered in the middle of the table. Lavender makes a noise of disgust at that, as Georgina endeavours to recover the tray from Neville's still very tense grasp, and Parvati and Fay help their roommate go about putting their section of the table back to rights. 

Still very pale, Neville mumbles something about needing to go to the Library as he gets up and then leaves the table, his plate still full enough to attest that it had most likely not originally been his intention to do so. Uncharacteristically, no one is cruel enough to say as much, or maybe they just weren't observant today.  
  


Once Ron has gotten something into his stomach - years of experience have taught Harry it's for the best to do things in that order - he leans over and quietly asks his friend, "Now that Peeves is gone, do you think we should wait for Hermione outside the Great Hall? Maybe talk to her in private?"

Ron, not incorrectly, rejoins, "Because that worked so well for us yesterday?" Harry looks a little stricken, which the ginger accepts as acknowledgment of his point. "Right. Look. Mate. I'm hungry, yeah? I haven't had a lot to eat, today _or_ yesterday, and I just don't see that working anyway." 

While Harry doesn't exactly disagree about the probability of success, he again can't help wondering if this isn't avoidance. But it still isn't really the spot for the talk he needs to have with Hermione, Ron's presence for that talk is probably a mixed bag, and even Harry knows it hadn't gone well in Transfiguration. No, no it hadn't. And it really doesn't help that _he's_ not eager to have that conversation with Hermione anyway... Indecisively, he remains sitting next to his best friend as he tries to think what to do. 

"But if you want to go," Ron mutters around a chicken leg, "I won't stop you." The tone doesn't _at all_ sound like he's as indifferent as he pretends, and Harry has the sinking feeling it's an 'either or' sort of a thing. He can be on the outs with _Ron_ , or _Hermione_... 

If this were a basilisk, Harry would have no problem, but emotional witches... They're a Thestral of a different colour. So he takes the path of least resistance and remains seated, helping himself to the food the girls have been good enough to put back on the serving trays.

* * *

  


Severus finally gets the door shut behind him and leans against it, just happy to be home. Or as close to happy as he comes these days. That happiness takes a bit of a hit when he spots what seems to be a... shrine of some sort erected on his... their dining table. Sunny would never do such a thing, ever, which leaves precisely one suspect. 

Miss Granger has... arranged some... things, _decoratively_ for fuck's sake, with what is definitely the largest bouquet to ever grace any quarters in which he's lived, towering up, smack in the middle of the display. 

He creeps closer, as if the construct represents some sort of latent threat. It probably does, actually, but only to the successful furtherance of his solitary, curmudgeonly ways. 

They seem to be... presents. 

A dull sense of mortification overcomes him as he realizes they're _wedding_ presents, peering closer to read the handwriting on some cards, apparently from his colleagues. The results, he presumes, of Miss Granger's talk with them yesterday. And she's just left her tat lying about, cluttering up his... their home. 

He'll have to have her remove it later... Although just about then he spots the Ogden's and thinks he may have to confiscate a thing or two. Yes, there's some elf wine and... who the hell would give the witch champagne? And whatever _for_? But the way his week has been going, he thinks he may have call for the Ogden's. Soon. 

That's not quite true. He's being facetious. For one thing, he has an open bottle of his own, calling his name at the moment much like Albus' sherbets, one might assume, and truthfully he feels very uncomfortable with the idea of taking anything at all from the young woman. Those things are _hers_ and he lays no claim whatsoever to them. And as he's no longer her instructor, he also doesn't feel like it's his job to impound any of the rest. That is _one_ role he has _no_ need for in his life. He has enough hats to wear, ta muchly.  
  


He stands there looking at the flowers in what could easily have been his mum's vase. He supposes they're... pretty, and can't help thinking she'd have liked the arrangement. It's an involuntary line of thought, he'd rather not pursue it, but she haunts him sometimes that way. 

Merlin knows, she never had flowers like that. 

She deserved better. 

He shakes his head. Hell, _everyone_ deserves better than his mum got.  
  


For a brief moment he finds himself wondering if his marriage will be just as much a nightmare as his mum's. 

He follows that with an extremely dark huff of laughter. That _would_ be unlikely. 

On the other hand, it suddenly strikes him, and it's a _supremely_ disquieting thought given the horror show that mariage had been, that his marriage _is_ likely to have even fewer comforts... fewer _pleasures_ than hers had had. His parents, one gathers, had at least loved one another. Once. Very long ago. Before everything went to hell. The mill closure, the unemployment, the dole, the back injury, the drinking, the abuse. 

Theirs was only a marriage, not a bonding. They could have parted, gone their separate ways. He'll never understand why they _didn't_ , but he's certain more than a few of his own choices make little enough sense to others so as not to judge his mum too harshly for that. But it makes him wonder what he or Miss Granger will do if... _when_ things become unbearable. 

Always assuming he doesn't die first...

Particularly as a Protection Vow hardly allows them to put any great distance between them, that may not be easy to resolve. Another huff of dark laughter. When is it ever _easy_? 

It's not worth much, but he makes himself a promise to never let things get that bad. 

And then he laughs at himself. It's good, it's an honest laugh. Because he really has no idea how to go about that.  
  


He flops onto his couch, avoiding the chair that's no longer his own, _almost_ \- but _only_ almost - regretting the stubborn streak that keeps him from simply switching the chairs, and then glaring at both for good measure. The feline is parked on Miss Granger's chair, he's pleased to note. So there's that. Progress. Small mercies. 

Who'd have thought? 

Said cat observes him closely as he stretches out there. 

Severus stares back at him for a little while before losing the contest he somehow seems to have unwittingly entered. Then he performs a Dies Charm to call up his calendar, ignoring the half-Kneazle's look of triumph, decides he's taken care of everything he'd meant to for the week, and then starts at the date. Bugger. He thinks for a moment, and maybe the scent of the flowers provides a bit of inspiration. 

"Sunny." The elf is there before the word has fully left his mouth. "Kindly take some some Good Grow Potion from the stores and go to the greenhouses after lunch. Give it to Pomona and ask her for a bouquet of poppies for Poppy in exchange. And then be so good as to take them to her directly, please."

"Flowers, Sir?"

"It's the eleventh," he explains, not that it helps. "Poppy Day." That's almost guaranteed to give the elf the wrong impression, but Severus can live with that. After all the times the woman has patched him together, she deserves an extra day of recognition. The only Muggle-born on staff, Call-Me-Terry Taylor is too new, and probably to Americanised to think to mark the day with poppies. And as the only other Muggle-raised on staff is Professor Beckford, and his time amongst the Muggles _significantly_ pre-dates World War I or Remembrance Day, Poppy will know who the flowers are from, not that _that_ is at all the point.  
  


The elf gives some variation on his standard, 'Yes, Sir, Master of Potions, Sir' and disappears and Severus sighs. He needs to talk to Albus about the students fighting about his bonding. He has no desire to do so. But he _does_ have a growing desire to whinge. _So_ dignified. 

He levers himself up from the couch, regretfully, and crosses to the fireplace to Floo Albus. If he lives to be... what had the witch said? One hundred and thirty-seven, oh, _and three quarter_ years old, he'll never enjoy Flooing. There's something inherently indecorous about leaving his arse hanging in the air like that just to chat with someone. The only silver lining is that Albus' arse is older. And much larger. Hopefully he finds this even less comfortable. 

He throws in a handful of Floo powder and calls for the Headmaster's office. He's hardly surprised that the office isn't warded for the connection within the school. Why would it be when Albus has shown such little regard for Severus' own wards? It's not like there's anything particularly dangerous in his classroom. Oh. Wait... 

Severus at least has an extra ward in place that prohibits the students from accessing the Potions storeroom without a teacher present. That had seemed... advisable after all the thefts three years ago. Although those _were_ by a teacher, it should be noted. Or a reasonable facsimile thereof, considering the Polyjuice used. Sadly the ward needs to be so general so that other members of the faculty can substitute for him. That's proven all too necessary the past year or so. But that's not quite the protection one might hope if all that's required is to trick a staff member into entering the room while an accomplice steals from his stores. Fortunately, most students don't think to try different permutations to circumvent the Protection Charms. 

As he sticks his head into Albus' office, calling for the elderly wizard, it occurs to him to _hope_ it's warded against the outside. That might not actually be the case the way he's been handling things lately. Draco's apparently been hard at work on an assignment to somehow smuggle Death Eaters into the castle, and to think all they'd need to do would be Floo Albus and casually saunter past him... And if Severus is particularly unlucky, which he usually is, why they might just kill Albus in passing and void the Unbreakable Vow Severus swore - both of them, actually - and he'd die on the spot, too. 

Well, it would certainly solve a number of problems...

He'll need to speak to Albus about the Floo wards, too. This is yet another example of the man slipping in the last quarter of an hour alone. 

"Albus? Albus!"

The bearded wonder startles awake at his desk, blinking blearily at the Potions Master. "Severus? Are you awake already?"

Well, that answers any questions Severus may have had as to his mental faculties. He tries to console himself that the man had only just woken, but he doesn't believe it's the reason even as he thinks it. Much of his frustration drops away, replaced by concern. "Albus? Are you alright?" 

"Oh, yes, yes. Quite alright, my boy. Just eating lunch," he hastily answers, picking up the spoon from his desk and pretending to be eating his soup. Severus isn't sure if he just hasn't _noticed_ that his beard is well and truly hanging in his lunch, or if he's trying to gloss over it. "Would you like to come through? I can have the elf fetch you a bowl as well..." 

"No..." Severus begins to respond, but Albus seems intent on convincing him and continues, scrutinising the contents of his bowl and casually magicking his beard clean. 

"It appears to be some manner of... Cream of Fungus..." Because _that_ was so likely to persuade him, or anyone else for that matter.

"No, thank you, Albus. That really won't be necessary," Severus replies, his brow now furrowed. "I needed a word." 

"Pray continue, my lad," he answers fairly jovially, beginning to eat his now tepid soup, but Severus doesn't quite trust the cheery tone. 

"I'd like for you to address the staff about taking measures to see to it that Miss Granger isn't subjected to abuse from her peers for the bonding. There was an incident, an exchange of hexes in the corridor earlier. I imagine it wasn't the first and won't be the last in response to the announcement yesterday, and it won't do to have her stuck in the midst of it."

"Madam Snape," Albus corrects, finally dropping the pretence that he's eating and coming over to the Floo. He kneels before the fireplace, a mite stiff in his movements, but it saves them both from having to speak quite so loudly. Getting up again should be an absolute joy.

"Was there any doubt which witch I meant?" Severus' eyebrow rises, and Albus smirks in reply. As long as that eyebrow functions, he has every faith that Severus will make a full recovery. That's arse backwards, of course. Even if _nothing_ else worked, it may be assumed the eyebrow would be the very last thing to give up the ghost. 

"No, I suppose not," Albus chuckles. 

"Why, Severus," and _there's_ the teasing tone Severus loathes, "are you concerned for her welfare?"

"Less hers than the rest of the student body's. Unless you'd care to see me flatten the lot of them? In which case I'm sure it can be arranged. Would tomorrow suit? Or what do you suppose will happen if she's hexed? _You_ were the one who insisted on the Geas, after all."

"Protection Vow, my dear boy. It wasn't a Geas."

"And was there any question which _Vow_ I meant, Albus?" Pedantic old sot. Cauldron, meet kettle. "And there is no substantial difference between your Vow and a Geas as you bloody well know."

"Language, Severus. Language." He chuckles again, "Or shall I take five points from Slytherin?"

"Given the frequency with which Mr. Weasley uses the word, I'd happily agree to that provided we docked him five for each instance in turn." He smirks, Albus' smile falters a little and he abandons that line of provocation, rather as Severus had thought he might. "Retroactively just for the week, perhaps? Might be sufficient to win us the House Cup." Quite. 

Albus changes the topic instead, "But indeed, it wasn't the first hexing. I gather a handful of students landed in the Infirmary as a result yesterday."

"Splendid. How utterly _rewarding_ to know I was right once again..." When Albus doesn't reply, he presses him again. "So you'll speak to the staff?"

"Yes, my boy. Don't fret." 

Ah, yes, fretting. Severus has a lengthening list of things to fret about. And he's still awaiting a reprimand of his own for putting Miss Granger at risk last night. Not that he'd been particularly conscious at the time, but when does that ever let him off the hook? Taking advantage of Albus' somewhat addled state, he chooses to go on the offensive instead. "Then there was the matter of how you left my classroom."

Albus actually looks sheepish for once. Perfect. Severus is practiced, and does not smirk. "I apologise, Severus. I even had them clean the Potion off the ceiling. I was certain they had gotten it all..."

Severus just blinks. He doesn't even have to ask. It'll have been the N.E.W.T. class. The Knarl's quills. He manages not to pinch the bridge of his nose, but it's a close thing. He really doesn't know how to make his notes any clearer. As he hadn't seen any evidence of an explosion while he was in the doorway, he simply replies, most equanimously, "Well, I've managed it now. You're very welcome. Additionally there was the matter of my wards. I had to sort those, too."

"I... Oh, forgive me, Severus, I suppose I..." Albus trails off with a protracted sigh. He looks... he looks tired. Tired and frail. Some days the old bastard looks like he'll live forever, and others... Other days, days like today, Severus thinks it will take a miracle for Albus to live to see the next week. The curse is taking its toll. 

It also takes what's left of the wind out of Severus' sails. 

"Yes." He agrees simply. "Albus, your Floo wasn't warded either. I could have come through - _without_ invitation, you understand - had I wanted." Not that the offer of Cream of Fungus soup, with a side of beard, no less, was enticing enough to do so, but still. There's a flash of something he very much hopes is worry across the older man's face; at least it would mean he understands enough to take this seriously. " _Please_ tell me the Floo access to the rest of the network is closed." 

Albus' is the only Floo at the moment that's connected to the outside world. Not even Poppy's is connected any more. Anyone wishing, or rather _needing_ to go to St. Mungo's must do so from the Headmaster's office, or Albus needs to reestablish the connection from the Infirmary for the occasion. It was deemed a wise precautionary measure, but that assumes he wards his own Floo. If not...

"No, I haven't used it lately," Albus assures him. "It should still be warded..."

"Shall I come through and check?" Severus offers. He's exhausted, _completely_ knackered, but this is too important to leave to chance. 

Albus waves his wand in a pattern Severus recognises well. He can see the glow form at the tip of the wizard's wand from where he's peering from the fireplace. "They're still in place," he confirms, unnecessarily at this point. Severus does _not_ find the slight note of relief in his voice especially reassuring. 

"We may need to deactivate the Floo so that it remains so. Only have it active if you explicitly reestablish the connection. It might reduce the risk..." Severus manages to be reasonably tactful, but the message is clear. 

"I'll take it under advisement." Albus goes silent for a moment and then sincerely adds, "Thank you."

Severus inhales deeply and then, _very much_ hoping his offer will be refused, asks, "Will you be alright for the afternoon classes or do you need me to take them?"

"Don't be absurd. I will manage. And if I'm not able to do so, I'll cancel them or organise someone else." 

Severus permits himself a huff of amusement, "Ah. But will my classroom still be standing when you've finished?"

"And that's precisely the reason it's located in the dungeons, dear boy." There's a hint of a twinkle back in Albus' eyes that Severus finds equal parts reassuring and infuriating. But as long as that twinkle is present, so too is whatever it is that is fundamentally Albus. There's a fleeting poignant thought that it won't be for very much longer. 

Albus does a brief check of his Headmaster's Homonculous Charm to determine that Severus is back in chambers. "Should you even be out of the Infirmary, Severus?"

"Not if you ask were to ask Poppy," the answer comes far too easily. They're both too accustomed to their situations, too glib when speaking of them. 

"Take the day," Albus orders. "Tomorrow, too if you need it. We'll muddle through in the meantime." There's a growing suspicion on both their parts that the students will never complete the year. There will be no N.E.W.T.s, no O.W.L.s. It makes it difficult sometimes to go through the motions in classes. Conversely it makes it easier to accept the occasional lapse with regards to the same. 

"I'll be back in class tomorrow," Severus asserts, the matter settled as far as he's concerned. 

"If you feel up to it. But I don't want to see you before then," Albus answers, not unkindly. 

"I'll see you tomorrow," and with that he withdraws back through the Floo. Sunny keeps their fireplace so clean, Severus has virtually nothing to tidy. What little soot there is on his robes, is probably exclusively due to oversights of Winky's. He resumes his place on his couch, thinking about Albus and even more concerned than he'd been before.

* * *

  


When Minerva reaches the Owlery, she's surprised to find Miss Weasley there. At the sight of her, Minerva tucks the parchment she's carrying into her pocket. The girl also has a letter in her hand, but from the look of her, she's been standing there for at least a few minutes and seems unresolved as to mailing her scroll. She just stands there staring at it, turning it back and forth in her hands and not making a move for any of the owls. 

There are remarkably few of the birds present at the moment. Minerva imagines yesterday's announcement of the bondings has something to do with that. There are only a few owls belonging to individual students present, plus a small contingent of the school owls that are permanently reserved for staff. Minerva is all too familiar with Mr. Weasley's owl, the small bird that had delivered Molly's Howler to Severus this morning. That had certainly made an impression, it's hard to forget. Miss Weasley is standing not too far from his perch, but not exactly close, either. 

Ginny looks up when she registers a noise, and now it's her turn to be surprised to see her Head of House appear there. She has the sense that she might be in trouble, possibly even with Professor McGonagall, and truthfully she's sort of been hiding out there. 

She knows Ron had Potions right before this. As she wasn't aware Professor Snape hadn't taught the class today, she's been really worried about his response to the Howler she figures her mum may have sent. And then there'll be Ron's response to _that_ , too. No, the Owlery seemed as good a place as any to lay low. Merlin, she might just go visit Hagrid after Quidditch practice in order to avoid the common room. Rock cakes are preferable to an angry Ron. 

She's written her mum about the things Harry said this morning, but she's still kind of unsure about sending the letter. She suspects her mum will be very angry with her for sending her the rumours and for not telling her the whole story. Ginny has no real desire to be on the receiving end of _that_ outburst. And she still thinks it was mostly Ron's fault anyway. How could she tell her mum what she herself didn't even known? What she _still_ doesn't really know? Mostly, it's speculation, and she'd already sent enough of that home, now that she thinks about it. She really can't see how this ends well for her. 

It feels like something Ron _should have_ taken care of. And _should_ take care of. This wasn't her mess, except it kind of _is_ now, and she's trying to work out how to get herself out of it once and for all. 

"Miss Weasley. What luck." Professor McGonagall doesn't exactly sound happy about it, and Ginny tenses in anticipation. "I wanted a word with you."

Ginny shrugs a little. What's she supposed to say? It's not like she can claim she needs to be elsewhere. She'd clearly been caught lost deep in thought and quite obviously wasn't on her way anywhere else. "Yes, Professor?"

"Did you owl your mother the news yesterday about Madam Snape's bonding?"

Any concerns Ginny had about her mum sending a Howler would seem to be confirmed if her Head is asking that. Bugger. 

She feels like Ron and Harry set her up, and she gets angry at them. If they had just told her the truth yesterday... 

And then she wonders if Hermione had complained to McGonagall about the Howler, and she gets angry at her, too. Of course, Hermione didn't ask their Head to do that, she wasn't even aware Professor McGonagall meant to speak to Ginny about the Howlers. Goodness, for that matter, she wasn't even aware of the Howler _she'd_ been sent. But that distinction isn't made. 

Instead, Ginny fumes. It doesn't seem fair that she has her Head breathing down her neck because those three kept her out of the loop and her mum... Well, was being herself, she supposes. Ginny can't help that. 

So maybe she stretches the truth in her answer. Just a little. 

"Ron and I agreed, we had to let her know what happened."

"And so the two of you sent home a bunch of _rumours_? What on earth _for_?"

"I guess we weren't exactly clear on what happened."

"I know for a fact Professor Dumbledore took Misters Weasley and Potter aside to brief them about the situation."

Bugger. "Well I guess they left the writing mostly to me," she shrugs, "and they neglected to pass some things along." 

"And so you sent a bunch of _rumours_ to your mother?" Minerva keeps at her, not letting her off the hook. " _Why_ would you do such a thing?"

"Well I had to tell her what happened, didn't I."

"Which _clearly_ isn't accomplished by relating the castle prattle. And what business was it of hers precisely?"

Now that's a problem. The answer is probably 'it's none of her business', but that's only likely to make things worse. She bites the inside of her cheek thinking about the best answer and finally alights on the truth, "It might not be, but that wasn't going to keep her from holding it against me if I _didn't_ keep her informed."

Minerva has to allow that it's probably true, and almost relents. But the girl had essentially tried to skirt some unpleasantness with her mum by causing someone else even more, and thoroughly undeservedly, too. Frankly, it was a poor showing. She looks at her disapprovingly. 

Ginny is still twisting the letter between her fingers. She looks up at her Head and somewhat timidly asks, "Is it true Hermione was attacked?"

"And were I to answer that, Miss Weasley, wouldn't you just pass it along to your mother?" She isn't loud, but the tone of her voice has Ginny cringing. She's far more used to being yelled at. This is worse. "Molly just Howled every last accusation she could apparently think of for all to hear, which is _exactly_ what would have happened had the Howlers not been opened outside the Great Hall. 

"If that were true, if Madam Snape _had_ been attacked, how much more damaging, how much more _hurtful_ would it be to have that Howled in the Great Hall?"

"She sent Hermione a Howler?" Ginny's feeling kind of sick now. She no longer has any desire to eat lunch. In fact, she's happy she _hasn't_. 

"Your mother sent Howlers to both her _and_ Professor Snape."

And right then and there Ginny decides to never run into Ron ever again if she can help it. He's going to Hex her six ways from Sunday once Snape is through with him. The only ray of hope is that Snape might not leave anything left of him. Which isn't entirely improbable...

Obviously avoiding Ron won't work in the least, Merlin they have practice right after classes, but it sounds... lovely. And very tempting. 

Something the Professor said gets through to her, though. About how hurtful it could be to have word of an assault blared for all to hear. Especially if Ginny was right about what may have taken place. She looks down at the letter in her hands that relates just that. 

And now she tries to picture what her mum might do. 

Ginny has to allow that's it's entirely possible her mum would send Professor Snape another Howler blasting him for taking advantage of Hermione's situation, her misfortune like that. And now she tries to picture how that would be, having that shrieked in the Great Hall so everyone hears it. 

She's not sure how Hermione can go about her day as though everything were normal, if only Friday... She can't begin to imagine how she does that. But she's reasonably sure it would be a lot more difficult if everyone were to know what happened to her. If they were all to change the way they treat her... 

When Ginny had been a first year and she'd had Tom Riddle's diary, even after she knew that it, _she_ was hurting other people, she hadn't gone to the Headmaster, or anyone else for that matter, because she was afraid of how they'd react to her, of their responses. It wasn't _just_ fear of being in trouble. Sure that was some of it, maybe a _lot_ of it, but it was fear of... everything, really. Everyone's harsh judgment, their rejection... She certainly didn't want them to treat her any differently. 

And now she tries picturing again how sending this letter home takes the decision out of Hermione's hands and could subject her to everyone's reactions. As if she didn't have enough to deal with...

Ginny crumbles the letter and puts it in her pocket. When she gets back to her room, she'll Incendio it for good measure. 

With her head down, avoiding Professor McGonagall's eyes, she says, "I guess I should get going," and turns and shuffles from the room.  
  


It's curious. Their conversation had been sufficient to convince Ginny not to send her letter. It's also convinced Minerva she's perfectly justified in sending hers. She takes it from her pocket again and ties it to an owl's leg, then carries the bird to the window and lets him fly. 

With a sense of satisfaction, she stands there watching him grow smaller the further away he gets. Admittedly he's probably only seeking a suitable tree for a nap just now, but it was the thought that counted. Somehow watching him fly off makes her feel better about herself and what she's done. Only when he becomes so small she can't see him anymore does she go to lunch.  
  


Fred and George will indeed send the Silencing Syrup to their mum. Business is business, and they aim to please their customers. Recognising the Hogwarts owl, they assume one of their two younger siblings has ordered the Potion. In fact, they're sure of it, that those two - or at least one of them anyway - thinking they were frightfully clever had avoided using Pig. They're leaning towards Ron for that. And Molly, recognising George's owl when he delivers the Potion, happily takes it. 

In a heretofore unknown Potion side effect, it transpires that if one has a _particularly_ sore throat at the time it's imbibed, and Molly very much _does_ , the efficacy is quadrupled. Molly spends the next two weeks or so unable to do more than squeak, and more softly than Filius at that. Of course, when she regains her voice, she has a few choice words for her children.

* * *

  


"Potter!" A decisive voice cuts through his conversation with Ron. 

Harry turns and sees a small congregation of Ravenclaws gathered about Lisa Turpin, fellow seventh year and more importantly the captain of the Ravenclaw Quidditch team. Sue Li and Anthony Goldstein, both of them also seventh years, flank her, and they're bearing down upon him. 

The little group has just returned from cornering Hagrid, because _today_ they're _all about_ cornering, to discuss their assignment for Care of Magical Creatures. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry catches the half-Giant taking his seat at the High Table. He gives Harry what Hagrid considers a small wave when he catches him looking. It nearly sends Pomona flying. 

Harry smiles back at Hagrid a little wanly, distracted when he spots sixth years Belle Chambers and Brian Bradley moving to join their teammates. Harry now finds himself facing the five older members of the Ravenclaw team. Huh. This would seem to be an organised power play. 

Alright then.

"Hawkshead Attacking Formation," Ron observes with a nod. 

"Eagle's head, more like," Seamus humorously corrects with a smirk. "Shows what you know. Since when do you need a Keeper and Beater in addition to the three Chasers for a Hawkshead?" Ron wrinkles his nose at the teasing. Harry still finds that a relief. Not all that long ago, Ron would have responded defensively, been insecure about the ribbing, and might have kicked off with Seamus. After what those idiots had apparently gotten up to yesterday, Harry's happy for them both to keep their wands sheathed. 

"We'd like a word, if you've got a minute," Turpin really doesn't sound all that friendly. 

"You're in for it now, mate," Ron half laughs. They may look like they mean business, but after the morning Harry and Ron have had, what are a few put upon Eagles? 

"Yeah, sure," Harry tells her rising. 

Turpin nods to the back corner of the room. "Let's discuss this in private." Harry has to wonder what precisely 'this' is. If he were going by her expression, it might be a matter of life and death, but Oliver Wood had certainly taught him that Quidditch can sure seem that way to a number of his schoolmates. Harry tends to think they have a glaring lack of perspective. Then again, not everyone has a Dark Lord after their hides. 

"Sure," he agrees, not too fussed as he climbs over the bench. 

"Good luck," Ron quips low enough that most of the Eagles miss it, and gives Harry a wink, shaking his head in bemusement as he helps himself to more chicken. 

Turpin leads the way to the corner and Harry follows with the rest of the Ravenclaws falling into formation, surrounding him like they were afraid he'd make a break for it otherwise. He can't help finding it sort of funny. There's _really_ nowhere to hide here. Goldstein and Li are in a few of his classes, even Turpin shares one. They take all of their meals in the same room, for Merlin's sake. And they almost definitely know his practice schedule. Where did they think he was going to go?

It turns out they are _exceedingly_ familiar with his practice schedule and that's _precisely_ the reason they'd like a chat. Apparently between all the preparation the Gryffindors and the Slytherins are doing for their upcoming match, they haven't exactly left much time on the roster for the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs to train. That seems to have ruffled a few Eagle feathers. 

"Now the Hufflepuffs may be too polite to say anything about it, but this is far from acceptable..." Turpin let's him have it. She covers a variety of bases, Harry can almost see her working her way down a mental list. 

Hermione would approve. 

Every now and again Goldstein seems to grunt his support. That may not be a fair representation, but Harry's sort of done here, and while he kind of agrees it may not be entirely _fair_ , surely they can see the importance of beating the Slytherin team? Can't they?

* * *

  


Hermione heads to lunch, her mood blacker than a certain bondmate's teaching robes. She is at an utter loss for words over said bondmate's unmitigated foolhardiness, leaving the Infirmary in his condition as he had. Her mood hadn't exactly been great after the problems with Pince, but this... _This_! 

Her hair is crackling, already there's little evidence that she'd brushed it not too long ago, and her own robes have begun to swish about her as she storms towards lunch. Madam Pomfrey had been nice enough to offer to let her eat in the Infirmary anyway, but that hadn't really been the point of going there. She's sort of hoping to see the Professor at lunch, and yet not entirely sure what she'll do if she does. 

What she'd _really_ like to do is give him a piece of her mind for his recklessness. 

Which probably isn't appropriate. 

But still. It's certainly _deserved_.  
  


It's a weird thing. Sort of a dual reality, if he had stayed in the Infirmary, then he would be perfectly fine, but because he's left, she feels like he's in mortal peril. That's very far from the truth, but some of Poppy's reaction to Severus' behaviour has rubbed off on the witch, and she's very worried. 

Precisely in this frame of mind, she runs into Ravenclaws Morag MacDougal and Michael Corner, returning, she realises with a frown, from what would have been _their_ N.E.W.T. Potions class. She feels a twinge of envy that they still take his class... It does _not_ improve her mood. 

The Ravenclaws, for reasons she can't begin to fathom, are both in moods themselves. And both rubbing their noses. She he wonders if today's Potion had been so pungent? And then involuntarily thinks of Ron's socks. 

Corner can't help himself because Harry's right, he's something of an idiot, " _So_ good of you to finally let your _husband_ out of bed. Had you thought to free the Dungeon Bat _sooner_ , we might have actually gotten something _accomplished_ in class."

Morag also can't help herself and has a sense of humour. With a smirk, she teases her Housemate, "Speak for yourself. _I_ finished my Potion." 

Hermione doesn't hear her, she's too busy bristling. Given the bed the Professor had last lain in was in fact an _Infirmary_ bed, she's more than a little tetchy on the subject. "He was in the Infirmary," she bites back. Her tone would suggest to most to let it drop. But Michael's nose is throbbing, and he's not thinking clearly. And _still_ an idiot. 

"Riiiight. I _heard_ about that." He smirks. "Didn't think you had it in you," he chuckles darkly, and Morag now has to laugh, recalling Ernie's reply to that. And of course Weasley's reaction to _that_. It's much easier to find humour in the situation as the only one to complete the assignment afterwards. 

The Snakes don't count. 

One might think thoughts about the instructor's bias skewing results in the Slytherins' favour could have been shaken by inarguably objective results such as today's. And yet, curiously, none of the Ravenclaws feel the need to re-examine their convictions on the matter. It wouldn't fit with their world view. 

The combination of Corner's tone and MacDougal's laughter sets Hermione off like a spark to black powder. She doesn't even pause to think about it. She looks him straight in the eye and performs Ginny's Bat-Boogey Hex. She's had enough occasions to watch, but she's never done it herself, and that combined with her unwavering intent means it comes off a bit rough and fairly harsh. That the nose to which it has been applied had only just been both broken and Episkied... Well, it's sensitive ground. 

"Bloody buggering hell!" Michael screams, tears pouring down his face as he clutches his nose, or tries to, the swarms of bats pouring out from the injured feature greatly complicating the process. 

"Language," Hermione mutters, more from habit than anything else, and sort of shocked that the Hex had worked. 

Morag just goggles at her. "What is it with you people and noses?" 

Hermione has no idea who 'you people' are, but by this point has to wonder if she really belongs to any plural. She shakes her head a little, as much at herself as the Ravenclaws. 

Corner mumbles around his hands, only slightly better able to articulate than he had been with a broken nose, but ultimately less clear thanks to the frankly stunning amount of pain exploding in his head. He whines, it's the best word for it, in disbelief, a barely distinguishable, "Bats?"

Her eyes narrow and she glares a little, rediscovering some of her indignation. "What else would you expect from the _wife_ of the Dungeon Bat."

Morag snickers at that, quietly telling Michael, "She has a point..." But her Housemate hasn't stopped moaning or crying, and if his nose is _anything_ as sensitive as hers is after the duel in the dungeons, she has a very clear idea why that might be. Poor sod. 

She frowns at Granger, Snape, whatever, "Well _stop_ it already."

Hermione shrugs and has to admit, "I'm not sure how." MacDougal gives her a dirty look just visible through the bats flying between them. 

" _Sure_ you aren't. Stop it _now_ before I report you for Hexing him in the hallways." She figures _that's_ worth at least fifteen points if the woman's husband is to be believed. Thinking of Snape's words to Ernie, she adds with a slightly cruel smirk, "And here you're a _Prefect_ , too..."

"I can't," Hermione answers firmly with a shake of her head and then stalks off to head into the Great Hall, deciding the situation is less likely to escalate if she disengages. She can just picture having to explain _this_ to the Professor.  
  


Michael watches her disappear through the curtain of bats, and when she's gone tells his friend, "We are _so_ reporting this." At the least it will show that bastard Snape he's no pushover. Serves them right for the job those Snakes have done on his nose today. He happily counts Granger, Snape, whatever, amongst their number. 

At just that moment a whisper comes from behind them and the temperature feels like it's dropped several degrees. They turn to see the bloody Baron fading into sight. "Because _you_ would never do such a thing." 

He floats there imposingly, rattling his chains in a threatening fashion for a spell, and when neither Ravenclaw works up the courage to speak, he addresses MacDougal, "Take him to the Infirmary, if you are so concerned about his welfare. I believe your... friends are already there." There's something about his face as he says it that makes her think he's just a little... smug. As she can't reconcile that with the apparition at all, she decides she's mistaken. 

"Come on, Michael. I'll help you get to Pomfrey. I kind of wanted to check on Terry anyway." And wrapping an arm around her Housemate, MacDougal leads him away.  
  


There was no threat voiced. Not at all. Frankly, they aren't entirely sure what the Baron could even do to them, but that doesn't seem like the kind of thing one should put to the test. Somehow the encounter leaves them shaken enough that neither feels it quite wise to report Granger, Snape, whatever after all. They let it slide. 

And Hermione has enough other things on her mind to not even think to worry about it.

* * *

  


With Harry gone, Ron's attention turns to the others at his table and he begins to pick up on some of their conversation. That only proves he's also an idiot of the first order, had there still been any doubt. 

Fay's "How many inches do you think he gave her last night?" has him raising an eyebrow in confusion. It practically coincides with Romilda's independent speculation "...ten inches..." which makes several girls giggle and leaves Ron sort of uncomfortable for reasons he can't explain and trying not to wonder what _exactly_ they're discussing. Homework... Wands... Wait, wands??

Romilda's musings are promptly interrupted by Seamus' objection, "Those are some completely unrealistic expectations if ever I've heard any..." 

He at least has the confidence to say so. 

That certainly helps as Romilda doesn't hesitate to point out, "For the average wizard, sure, but then _he's_ hardly the _average_ wizard." 

"' _Hardly_ '!" one of the geese cackles to still more giggles. 

Ron's begun to shift uneasily on his seat. He's got a bad feeling about this but can't quite put his finger on it. 

"I've seen him Accio _twenty-five_ things _at once_. Silently. _Wandlessly_ ," Kiera adds, sort of breathlessly. 

"Woof," Demelza agrees. 

"Woof?" Seamus asks. 

"Woof," Romilda confirms, as though that cleared it up. 

Ron now has a pretty good idea who they're talking about. Stupid pronouns. It probably helps to narrow things down that he doesn't know anyone capable of Summoning twenty-five things at once. Not even Bill could do that. And never mind silently, and sure as hell not wandlessly. Fuck. 

Slightly dreamily, and isn't that scary, Romilda continues, "I bet he gave her an 'O' last night." 

He should know better, he _really_ should, but stupidly asks, "What's that supposed to mean?" 

"An 'O'? Like an Orgasm?" 

Not quite what he was expecting. No. Worse. Definitely worse. It shows on his face. 

Romilda laughs, "Wow, you really don't have a clue, do you?" 

Seamus is inclined to think with her remark about 'ten inches' that the fifth year hasn't much of one either, but he wisely bites his tongue faced with as many witches as he is. He's a good bit smarter than people give him credit for, and his mam has taught him _never_ to underestimate a witch. And certainly not a gaggle of 'em.

"Believe me, _Ron_ doesn't," Lavender agrees to much snickering. "Now _Gaston_ , on the other hand, _he_ could teach you a thing or two. Or _ten_." Her head tilts back, her eyes roll up and then her lids flutter closed as she bites her lower lip and makes a soft 'Unh', mimicking positively decadent rapture. Or Ron thinks so anyway, he's not entirely sure. 

Colin just sits there staring. Well, that and wishing he'd been fast enough with his camera. Blast. 

"'Ten'? Like in ten inches?" Romilda enquires with a wicked grin and a suggestive waggling of her eyebrows, and then she and the geese are off and squawking but Ron's no longer paying attention. He's just furious.  
  


Which, naturally, is when Hermione enters.

* * *

  


Severus' mood is worsening. He can feel her irritation. She's not in danger, not under threat, just working his very last nerve. In absentia, even. It's... distressing. 

Albus' condition has left him shaken, which naturally isn't helping. He's a lot more comfortable on the days he's able to storm about resentful and angry about the things Albus has him do. At the very least, it will make it easier to use the Avada on him. On days like today... If he isn't able to hate him after the man practically forced him to bond a student, take a Vow of celibacy, and gets him tortured for that in the bargain... He may be misremembering some of that, but he's entitled. 

He's also rather annoyed to have discovered that Malfoy and Zabini both had Serpents on their arms. That's not entirely accurate, as he's also quite pleased about it, particularly the _three_ Draco has. He can't wait to see how that turns out. Some part of his mind begins to set the odds, calculating the probabilities of various results for an internal wager. He discovers he's pleased with everything shy of death. He's still not certain how that would affect his Vow...

But the Legilimency he'd performed on Theo had shown that not only had those two received Serpents, but Crabbe and Goyle as well, and Norman Nott had also seen fit to send his son an owl. It was all so terribly _obvious_ had anyone been watching. The degree of idiocy involved... 

He had considered a scathing comment to the boys, when he'd seen the Serpents, but what was the point? They aren't responsible for their parents' actions. Merlin knows, they suffer for them often enough. They certainly will tonight. Heh. No, chastising them would have been adding insult to injury. 

He pours himself a drink, from his _own_ bottle of Ogden's, ta, as he sits there dreaming of sending an appropriately caustic owl to the Manor. Something scorching... And it hits him, even if it weren't a suicidal act in itself, there's really no one sensible to send it to. To a wizard and witch, the individuals who had sent the Serpents would fail to understand why it was so poorly advised. They fail - utterly - to comprehend how very much it matters just now who knows what when, and that these aren't things to reveal in front of the whole school. Severus is almost grateful he hadn't had to watch it take place. He'd have been miserably scanning to see everyone's reactions and then intent on chasing them down to see what they'd made of it. 

And then there's the far more significant question: having the knowledge their parents obviously did, why did they feel the need to punish those children?

They are _incredibly_ lucky that almost no one outside the House has ever made the connection between the Poste Serpentes and punitive measures. 

He takes a sip and, once he's finished berating himself for ever joining the Death Eaters, again, tries to think - purely as a mental exercise - whom he _could_ \- theoretically - owl about this. Possibly Augustus Rookwood. He's intelligent, blessed with brains and the ability and willingness to use them. Severus sighs. He'd have been best served, all those years ago, if instead of becoming a Death Eater he'd simply played owl Chess with the man and left it at that.

It's rubbish. The chances they'd offered him, his apprenticeship... 

Minerva had been excellent in her field, a real star, and well liked to boot, and not even _she_ had landed an apprenticeship when she graduated. No, it had been a dreary Ministry job for her, and despite her hardworking nature she'd only survived a couple of years at it before throwing in the towel. 

So what had he had to look forward to? He'd had poor prospects, few connections outside of the Death Eaters from his days at Hogwarts, certainly none from his family... With the climate as it had been at the time... It was the only offer he had and he took it, naïvely thinking he might be able to provide Lily some protection as well. 

He can't honestly say anymore if he had hoped to rekindle even the least bit of affection for him on her part by doing so. If calling her a 'Mudblood' - once - had proven that cataclysmic to their friendship... That's a lie he's been telling himself fairly regularly for more than two decades now. It hadn't been the _reason_ everything fell apart, just the final straw. There had been far too many issues before then, it had simply been the single moment he could point to when everything... ended. But he'd had no illusions about how unforgivable she'd find the Dark Mark on his arm. He knew there was no way back. 

But he knows for a fact he was eager to show he was better than her idle trust fund rotters who never worked a day in their lives. Smarter, more capable, _far_ more industrious. _Useful_.  
  


Well he's certainly useful now. 

Both sides of the war depend on him. Greatly. Where would they be without him? 

Which begs the question why they both treat him so abysmally...

He Summons the bottle of Ogden's and puts it on the end table next to him. And if he doesn't bother to eat first, it only increases the efficiency of his drinking, doesn't it?

He may have asked some of that out loud, because the feline answers with a sympathetic 'Mrawr'.

"Slainte," Severus replies, raising his glass to him.

* * *

  


Turpin and Goldstein are still working him over when Harry spots Hermione come in. She sits, well _sort of_ by Ron, and it strikes Harry then that Gin isn't there yet and that Hermione really isn't too close to the other girls. He looks around, yeah, with Neville gone... She really _is_ a bit of an outsider. It's not that Harry is that much better connected to their Housemates, really - of the three of them, that's kind of Ron's thing - but being the Quidditch captain integrates Harry. Somehow. 

The Ravenclaws really do have him pinned, he realises, and suddenly he does indeed wish to escape. Maybe the Eagles weren't quite as foolish as he'd thought. He's stopped listening to whatever Turpin's banging on about now and watches his friends intently instead. 

Ron appears to have made some kind of crack, and Hermione's hair is doing that thing it does, and she cries out. A few heads have begun to turn and Harry quickly puts up Muffliato. It's crummier than usual because it's on _them_ , and _he's_ not included. That's really hard to work, and he's just lucky the Ravenclaws are too busy lecturing him to pay attention and learn the spell. He sort of likes keeping it secret. 

He thinks he may have agreed to... something. And then he has a brilliant idea, and suddenly he's taking advantage of Ron's detention Saturday morning buggering their schedule to make it appear he's making a concession to their demands and settling for pre-dawn practice instead. Brill. That goes over really well, and in their satisfaction they break ranks for a moment and then he just pushes out of their midst with a, "Gotta go..."

"Wait," Turpin calls out, "but the Hufflepuffs..."

But Harry's slipped through their talons and Anthony just replies, "...Can sort their own schedule. That's not our lookout."

* * *

  


Draco tells Theo and Blaise to go on without him, he needs to go back for something. 

"Should we wait?" Theo asks.

"No, don't be silly. Go to lunch. I'll see you in Arithmancy." Theo nods. Blaise smirks, to this day completely satisfied with himself for having avoided that perfectly horrible class. _He's_ not an idiot. Draco catches his look and gives him a slight smile back. With the Serpents on his arm, he's really not up to more. "Blaise, I'll catch you later." 

He turns and heads back towards the dungeons, but once the other two are out of sight, he withdraws to a lavatory he knows will be unfrequented to cast the Revelio that will decipher his mother's owl.  
  


Moaning Myrtle greets him as he enters, "Draco! How have you been?" Floating around him, circling him with readily apparent pleasure. 

"Hello, Myrtle. Not so well, I fear."

"Are you making any progress with... you know?"

"No," he sounds defeated. 

Myrtle likes the cute blond. She likes that he comes to visit, a little less regularly lately, which she can fully understand, considering... Well... But more than anyone else ever has. She's missed him. And it really doesn't hurt that he's easy on her eyes and has never teased her about her spots or glasses. 

"But I've had some good excuses lately. Lots of detention." There's a mock cheeriness about him that has her worried. She's been there herself. Less cheery, naturally, but she recognises the signs. Except ghosts can't do themselves any more harm. She's not too sure that's true for the seventh year standing before her. "And I half took up residence in the Infirmary."

"Draco? That doesn't exactly sound good..."

"It's never good," he replies with an honesty she instantly recognises, even if she'll never understand the depths of that truth. "I just stopped by to read a letter from my mother and say 'hello'. You don't mind if I do that here? It seemed... fitting, somehow." It's where it all began after all. 

"I'm glad you're still willing to return, you know... after..." Myrtle's eyes shoot to the spot on the floor where Draco knows he nearly met his death. It would have simplified things. Severus had saved him, in fact. _And_ Myrtle. Had she not cried for help... And how does he thank either of them for it?

He has a moment where he considers that she's lonely, she's _always_ been lonely. Had she _not_ summoned help for him last year when Potter gutted him like a fish, she was more likely to have had his company forevermore. And yet her first and only instinct had been to scream murder, to summon help. He resolves to visit her more. And truthfully, he's forgotten how he felt better after talking to her. 

"I need to read my mother's letter, send her an answer, and then I still have to go to class." Merlin knows, he won't have time to answer _after_ classes. "But if you wouldn't mind, maybe I could visit again soon?"

"I'd like that." She brightens instantly, becoming more opaque. He looked so pale coming in here though... She works up some selfless courage, just this once, and asks, "But is it good for you to do that?"

He shrugs, looks at her and says something she's never heard before, "I guess I've missed you."

Myrtle wisely goes silent at that, blinking a little owlishly behind her glasses, and then deciding to be a better... _her_ instead asks, "Would you like a little privacy for that?"

He nods a bit stiffly, not at all eager to read the letter, but needs must... And then he wonders if he's a bit of a heel, chasing her from the room, but she just smiles and tells him she hopes to see him again soon before parting. 

Which leaves him alone with his mother's owl.  
  


It's worse than he feared and _exactly_ what he should have expected. He simply hadn't been giving it any thought, if possible. His hand absently rubs the paper snakes under his sleeve as he thinks it. It would seem Severus had reported what had happened Friday fairly accurately. Draco supposes he hadn't really had much choice. How else would he explain the bonding? If it had just been about how they'd... _he'd_ tied Granger to McGonagall's chair it probably wouldn't have been so bad, but then _that_ probably wouldn't have led to the Headmaster having the Muggle-born students... _witches_ bonded. 

No, Severus had had to tell them about Crabbe's Potion. 

His mother makes it perfectly clear what she thinks about that.  
  


It doesn't matter that the Potion was poorly brewed, or that nothing _really_ happened... She wants to know what he was thinking to give it to a classmate, to _anyone_? But very specifically: how _he_ could _do_ something like that to someone he'd sat in class beside for over six years.... And what had he _thought_ was going to happen? He doesn't believe telling her he hadn't thought that through will be much help, even if it is the truth. 

She also makes it perfectly clear he's to meet her on the next Hogsmeade weekend, under the guise of getting measured for new dress robes. She wants a word with him. He doesn't imagine he'll be getting those robes anymore, either. Of course, if Severus has any say in the matter, and he most certainly does at school, it's unlikely Draco would have any chance to attend a function where he'd need them. 

A little glumly, he slides down onto the floor and sets about writing a reply. If he hurries, he should have plenty of time to get it to Mercury waiting up in the Owlery and send his response back to his mother before class.

* * *

  


Harry quickly joins his friends, slipping himself into the Muffliato, and it really is a rotten buzzy thing. Not his finest work. It hums so loudly, even for those inside it, that both Hermione and Ron were well aware it was there, each assuming the other had cast it so they could argue more freely. Taking it as the other throwing down the gauntlet, both were giving as good as they got and quite thoroughly cross by the time Harry joined them. 

Ron makes a comment about how glad he was not to have had Snape in Potions, how much more they learn, how much better the class... Harry can't help thinking Ron definitely hadn't learnt much today, not in general, obviously, and _certainly_ not in Potions, none of them had, really, but then that's hardly the point of his claim. Next he'd probably start in with how he wishes they had Slughorn again, but Hermione doesn't give him the chance. 

She's shouting now, and Harry is thankful he got the Muffliato up on time. It's highly probable, however, that she wouldn't have risked shouting without it. "You and your thankless _ilk_ ," it sounds beyond dodgy the way she says it, and Harry's wondering if Gin might have been right about Mrs. Weasley sending a Howler, "have _no idea_ what he goes through for the Order..."

Harry makes the mistake of trying to arbitrate between them. Unfortunately, for him that means substantially agreeing with Ron, but being more diplomatic about the phrasing, as if that made any real difference. It might, but not to Hermione and not today. And she's perfectly capable of mapping that back onto their usual language anyway. "He just meant class was a lot more enjoyable without someone taking points off of us for every last thing..."

His ever so considerate translation coincides with Ron's reply, now every bit as heated as Hermione's, "It couldn't happen to a nicer guy. I can't think of anyone more deserving."

Hermione looks back an forth between them, feeling attacked from all sides. For her, a few things are clear. The Professor wouldn't have landed in the Infirmary last night were it not for their bonding. They wouldn't have _considered_ a bonding had she not been attacked Friday. And _that_ would never have happened had Ron not had the poor taste to ignore her advice and be 'Malfoy' for Halloween the week before, like a complete and utter _prat_. 

Or had Harry not nearly killed Malfoy last year, for that matter. That _might_ have been worse. 

Her eyes narrow combatively and with something of the air of a trapped animal about her she tells them, "This was all _your_ fault. You caused this whole mess." She knows they've been told it was so, and she has little patience for their apparent denial.  
  


If things weren't going badly before, they certainly do now. 

Harry balks severely because now he thinks she means something he _desperately_ doesn't want to have caused, he _can't_ have caused. He wouldn't know how to live with himself if he did, so clearly it _didn't happen_. Except reality doesn't work that way, and his construct to help him cope is a ridiculously flimsy thing. Not wanting a thing to be so doesn't make that the case. 

As his worst fears are wrong, he'd do well to speak to Hermione, but because he can't voice them, because he's terrified she'll look him in the eye if he ever did and say just that, ' _it was_ his _fault_ '... He wouldn't survive it. And because he instinctively knows Ron can never hear even a hint of it... Well, that conversation doesn't happen. 

And Ron, well Ron was even more fully in denial anyway. But as he hasn't formulated the same particular nightmare vision as Harry has, he's less gentle when dealing with Hermione. To be fair, she doesn't exactly pull her punches either, but in her already weakened state, Ron's land more truly even with the Calming Draughts, and all Hermione registers is Ron's _brutality_ , and that both boys seem intent on weaselling their way off the hook, denying all responsibility for their actions. 

There's a short moment when she wonders if she's ever hated anyone _more_. 

Given the events of Friday... Well, that's a harsh statement. But the real difference is the feeling of _betrayal_ that accompanies the things her 'friends' are saying now. Malfoy was a twat, had always been a twat and would probably always _be_ a twat. She expected nothing else of him. Whatever else had happened Friday, it hadn't been a betrayal. This, _this_ however...  
  


"Says who? Snape? Like you can believe a thing he says," the loathing is all too tangible in Ron's tone. Hermione would point out that she very much _can_ due to the bond, thank you very much, but doesn't get the chance. It's just as well, as Ron wouldn't have liked to hear it. "And I thought you were supposed to be the 'brightest witch of your age'." The sarcasm drips from his tongue, and Hermione flinches as though hit. Those were never _her_ words, she'd never acknowledged the title, but it follows her around, in the worst kind of way. 

"I _know_ , that's why," she asserts, thinking all reasonable discussion thwarted by her Oath to the Headmaster. That may be the case, but the personalities involved are every bit as much a hindrance at this point. 

Ron only snorts at her claim. It sets something loose in her, she sees red and kind of wants his blood. She goes for the throat. "You were mentioned by name, actually." The Oath permits that much, but she suspects not much more. But in case that's not clear enough, she hisses, "Friday."

Harry blanches. 

"Well then you're just giving them what they want aren't you? Fighting with us like this..." Ron always seems to be laying the blame at her feet, at _anyone's_ feet but his own.  
  


It goes that way for a few minutes more before she finally has the sense to do what she should have done minutes before. Wiping the tears from her eyes, mindful of the promise she made Luna, she snatches a pastie from the table and practically flees from the room. 

Neither of the boys moves to follow her, not that it would have been likely to help much at this point. Harry finds himself unable to eat another bite. Inasmuch as Turpin had pulled him away from the table before he'd eaten much, by Herbology his stomach will be growling. But less so than Ron himself currently is.  
  


Someone else has been keenly observing the exchange, however, and now follows Hermione from the room.

* * *

  


Severus is throughly wretched. Wherever the witch in question is, he shuts his eyes, listens to the bond an decides it's in the vicinity of the Great Hall, but has to acknowledge he's cheating a little knowing full well it's the lunch hour, she's in quite a state. As if the strop before hadn't been sufficient, she's gone from the comparative to the superlative. From 'angrier' to 'angriest'. It never occurs to him that his absconding had contributed that shift. 

He's more than a little angered himself, knowing full well she clearly hasn't taken the Draught of Don't Give a Fuck like he'd advised, and he's now royally... cheesed off. She seemed to believe him when they spoke yesterday, planning how best to approach this. And then she didn't take his advice... But then why on earth should she, it's not like he has any experience with Potions or anything... 

His mood now dark as Hermione's, he pours himself another tumbler of Ogden's.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 20th. 
> 
> Spoiler alert: Two decades later, Severus is alive and well and exceedingly happy with Hermione, and the two of them are brewing up a storm. The best revenge is a long and happy life.


	73. 11 11m Tuesday - Sub-Optimally 3 Flinching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hermione, Severus, Draco, Theo Nott, Luna, the Bloody Baron, Morag MacDougal, Blaise Zabini, Tracey Davis, Daphne Greengrass, Alberta Runcorn, Vincent 'Vince' Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, Pansy Parkinson, Millicent 'Millie' Bulstrode, Harper Hutchinson, Hestia and Flora Carrow, Valerie Vaisey, Crooks, Sunny, the Centaurs_

As the doors shut to behind her, Hermione takes a decision. It's far from the worst one she's made lately. There's a feeling of relief as she resolves to give herself a break and not eat in the Great Hall any time soon. It's simple enough. Easily arranged. And she just can't see how she's supposed to make it work, sitting at the Gryffindor table, the subject of snide remarks and ridicule... 

No. No more of that. 

Enough. 

She'll just have Sunny bring her something in chambers. Which are perfectly lovely, really. Yes. That should be... nice. She'll be _fine_ there. _Just_ fine. 

With the way the elf is coming to feel about his new witch, that's likely to greatly improve the fare as well. That's hardly the _goal_ , but it's surely a 'nice to have'.

Next she berates herself for not taking the Draught of Peace. She'd _known_ better, Merlin, she'd had advice from the most competent Potions professional she's ever encountered to that effect, and somehow she'd _still_ managed to bugger it up. How hard was it to just take the damn Potion? Well, she hadn't had it with her this morning, had she, and last night had been... Sort of unexpected. Not that it _should have_ been, she supposes, but she's still too new to this... Give her time, she'll master it. She's sure of it. 

Well, sort of... 

And then she hadn't wanted to second guess Madam Pomfrey when she prescribed the Calming Draught, and _now_ look where she's landed. 

She feels remarkably thick. 

She's certain had she taken the proper Potion, that little set to with Ron and Harry could have been avoided. Sure, Ron would still have been a rude clod, an arrogant little so and so... That's not the point. But it _was_ pretty much a given. Merlin knows, they've been there often enough over the years. But if _she_ hadn't responded... This was all so avertible. So _unnecessary_... 

To make matters worse, there's virtually no chance the Professor isn't aware that she apparently ignored his advice, and he'll probably also be all too aware that she's been... arguing. She chews her lip anxiously. She's really screwed this up. _Royally_. 

It would probably be a better solution to talk to the Professor about his weak Notice-Me-Not Charm and try using that to better cope with the days to come, but in light of her little oversight with the Draught, she doesn't think she has the courage to do so. No. No, probably not. 

So in a second resolution in minutes, she decides not to leave chambers for the foreseeable future without taking the Draught of Peace first. She can do that. At least until she has herself under control. Which she very apparently doesn't just yet. Bugger. 

Well, to be fair, it was probably too soon. Live and learn. And learn she shall... 

Determination clear on her face, her chin tilted up at a defiant angle no one was ever meant to see (in part because it looks rather silly and she sort of senses it), pastie a little too firmly in hand (a fact made all the more clear by the pumpkin juices that begin to run down her hand, damn it, but then that's what Tergeos are for), she stomps off down the corridor, trying to put some distance between herself and the Hall. 

Just in case.

* * *

  


As _her_ irritation increases, and it's _very_ clearly increased - what the _fuck_ had Albus been thinking to include the emotional connection in their bond like this - so too does the amount Severus imbibes. 

He's now well on his way to being seriously impaired once this hits his bloodstream. Short of a Bezoar or an emetic, there's no way back, a fact he finds _eminently_ satisfying, which makes for a nice change to... absolutely _everything_ else, really. He's just waiting for the effect to hit. Preferably squarely between the eyes. Huzzah! 

He's trying to remember why he doesn't just magick the stuff into his system. There were... reasons... They elude him now. It'll probably come to him when he sobers up. And promptly stop mattering at roughly the same time. 

He sits there, slouched on his couch, sulking, drinking his Ogden's and fervently hoping she'll just go to whatever class... Ugh, _class_... _**Class!**_ A godsdamned _student_! Albus is a _fucking_ bastard... Except he's technically neither of those things, really. Pedantry is a burden... Severus will have to find a better suited term for the hoary old arse... Later. 

Actually, 'hoary arse' works. 

It probably is, too. 

And _now_ he needs the non-existent mental Scourgify to get the image of Albus' buttocks out of his mind... Obliviation is _not_ too extreme! 

Severus' hand waves dramatically in the air, one of his long fingers stabbing emphatically upwards to reinforce his point that no one has any desire to dispute. On the contrary, the Kneazle meows his complete agreement, which is probably a good indicator that Severus is voicing many of his thoughts, a fact that will annoy him some later. For the present, however, he simply gives the feline a firm, if slightly wobbly, nod of approval and toasts him again. 

But, honestly, Severus is just being patently absurd about the Obliviation, because _of course it is_. Too extreme. Although the claim had sounded good. Rather. Hell, even the cat had thought so. But he has no idea why it isn't an Unforgivable outside of a medical setting, really... 

Obliviations, not Kneazles. 

Actually, he throws the cat a baleful glance, perhaps Kneazles should be unforgivable, too. He may have given voice to that as well, because Crooks answers with something that sounds suspiciously like a growl and a flick of his tail. Severus apologises, a touch pro forma, for his facetiousness and scratches the creature behind his ears (Reparations!), because at some point it seems to have moved from Miss Granger's chair to the couch. Severus isn't quite clear when that happened. And he calls himself a spy...  
  


Where was he again? Right. A student. 

Fucking hell.

He really doesn't know what he did to deserve this... 

Except for _all of the things_ he did to deserve this...  
  


Fuck. 

Right. 

Well then.

And not _just_ a student. No. A student who has little compunction about Obliviation. Actually, that's probably fine; neither does he. (One might think his current thoughts on the matter belie that, but he doesn't notice the inconsistency.) No, they're in excellent company. Ah, well, except she'd Obliviated _her own family_. 

Fucking hell. 

He's already said that, though, didn't he? It probably can't be said often enough. 

A _student_ , for fuck's sake. 

Well, not _his_ student. Small mercies. He's trying to decide if that makes the situation any better, which is stupid, because _of course_ it does, but he is not. Best. Pleased. Not about any of it. 

Bugger.

No. He's married... Worse! _**Bonded**_! To a _student_. 

A student who is doing his head in, almost as much as the facts of that bonding. Hmm. Perhaps more so...

He hopes, Merlin, so very much so, that she'll just go to whatever godsdamned class she has next and for the love of all he holds dear, cease. This. Onslaught. 

He _really_ can't take it anymore. 

Which would be funny given how well he handles the Cruciatus, if it weren't so bloody, _irreversibly_... 

... sad.

* * *

  


Theo and Blaise slide into the free seats amidst their fellow seventh years on opposite sides of the Slytherin table, Theo between Tracey and Gregory, and Blaise between Daphne and Vince. Alberta Runcorn is there, too, seated at Vince's other side. The mood in their little group is noticeably subdued, unsurprising, faced with the prospect of opening their Serpents later this afternoon as most of the boys in their year are. The questions as to what they'd done to deserve this make the mood even more tense. 

They know, beyond _any_ doubt, that the Poste Serpentes have to be considered _true_ to be created, and perceived as _deserved_ for them to work. And they're having a difficult time imagining all the senders could be so wildly mistaken in having made the things. Considering the people involved... Well, it seems far from likely. The sum of which makes the absence of guilt they're currently feeling a pretty unsettling thing. Blaise, Theo and Tracey have all independently speculated as to an Obliviate. That's not remotely a comfortable feeling, for obvious reasons.  
  


Theo's better off than his roommates, of course, thanks both to the absence of Serpents around his own arm and those... unusual words of praise from his father this morning. There's a spot next to Pansy a little further down their table that Theo half suspects will remain empty given whom she'd probably been saving it for. They haven't... She and Draco, that is... Well, they haven't been _seeing_ one another since last year, but they're still friends. Better, in some ways, Theo suspects, now that 'it's' over. 

Still enjoying the role of a wizard of action (Is he ever!) and assorted good deeds, at least that's the way he's decided to see it, or sometimes anyway, he tells her Draco had an errand to run and asks if she'd like to join them. 

Honestly, Pansy doesn't like Theo all that much, and he knows that well enough. Usually he'd have avoided serving her up a chance to slight him, but today, _today_ he's a man of courage and, um, well, yeah, maybe action. Or something. No, 'action' was right. He _had_ done. That was true enough... 

It takes Pansy a few minutes to finally give up hope Draco is coming and a little reluctantly slide over. Theo will take it as another win. He's stockpiling.  
  


In the meantime, Blaise, completely tired of all the moping, _so_ over it, has decided it's time to change things up. He's sick of all the long faces. Those only lead to wrinkles of the worst sort. And then only the strongest Glamours will do. If his mother has taught him only one thing, it's that there's not a Potion been brewed yet to deal properly with glabellar wrinkles. _Frown lines_... _Merlin_. 

Well, that and how to poison people. _And_ get away with it. Actually, she's taught him a lot...

Ah, wait, technically Polyjuice would be an exception on the wrinkle front, that _would_ solve it, but then that's hardly a practical solution longer term. Admittedly, Professor Not!Moody's success with the Potion might lead one to believe otherwise. But when one looks as good as Blaise does... Why would he want to look like anyone _else_? Rubbish. It's all so terribly... needless. 

So he's started telling the others how Theo had challenged the wretched Ravenclaws and horrible Head Boy... No, really, no less than the _Head Boy_ himself! How those tossers had been slagging off their Head of House, and how Theo _courageously_ took them on, despite being outnumbered - he didn't hesitate for a moment, never even blinked. And _won_. That was a key part of the story, after all.

There are a few disbelieving looks, but Blaise remains undeterred. 

Blaise, whatever else he is, is an excellent storyteller. He's a charismatic boy, and he weaves an extraordinarily distracting tale. He has no need to put himself or Draco in the forefront of the story. For one, they _hadn't_ been really, not that it would necessarily stop him from saying so, but their roles are perfectly established with his audience - or at least for a few more hours, not that he knows it - and he paints a highly dynamic picture of their shy Housemate, taking on the evil hordes, with his loyal friends at his side and back. 

A few more Slytherins, Millicent Bulstrode accompanied by mostly sixth years, predominantly the Quidditch players, work their way over to them, eager to hear the story that seems to have caught their Housemates' interest. 

Blaise goes on to tell in not entirely _accurate_ (but all the more _amusing_ ) detail how Potter's recruits - after Dumblebore's Army had been caught fifth year, _everyone_ knew all about their little 'secret' - had failed _miserably_ faced with the superiorly wielded Slytherin wands. Go Snakes! Even if most people can agree that it makes perfect sense that the Slytherins _hadn't_ been invited to join the thoroughly stupid 'DA' (especially as roughly half had been members of Umbridge's secret police at the time), there remains a non-trivial degree of somewhat illogical resentment attached to that fact. 

That's quite evident in moments such as these. 

Blaise's description of Boot's face alone causes fits of laughter. After Gregory gets over his uncomfortable recollection of his own experience with the Hex, it _really_ hadn't been pleasant, even he finds a certain vindication in the idea Draco had used it and shyly begins to smile. There's a pleasing symmetry to it. When Gregory tells the others just how bad it had been, and Blaise assures them, _this_ version was _worse_... Well, they have cause to laugh again. 

Oh! And _the House points_. Merlin, _that_ was funny. How Theo had actually _objected_. To the Head _himself_! They should have seen the look on his face. But then how pleased Professor Snape, hell, _they'd all_ been with his solution. Five points _to_ Slytherin, fine, it wasn't much, but _forty-five_ from Ravenclaw, pending Flitwick's decision when it will probably be more, count on it, and _thirty-five_ from Hufflepuff just for Macmillan alone. Truly not a bad score. 

Ah, yes, and the Head Boy had detention with Filch, too. 

Smiles and nods greet that statement. Even if Draco doesn't seem upset not to have been made Head Boy, his Housemates are more than willing to carry this particular grudge for him. 

The mood now vastly improved, Tracey goes on to tell how Theo - _yes, Theo_ \- had _also_ saved the Head Girl from her exploding cauldron, because the Weasel is and will ever remain an idiot, _really_ (more nods there), and Dumblebore is _woefully_ inadequate as a Potions instructor. There's still more laughter, and a few people clap Theo on the back, Vince a little too roughly, naturally, which causes the far skinnier boy to choke on his lunch a bit. Fortunately no one feels the need to keep thumping as he coughs his way through it. 

When he's finally able to speak, Theo decides to carry on as he has been today. Mustering his courage for the inevitable backlash, but taking full Slytherin advantage of their lighter moods, he tries to explain to the others that part of the problem was that the Ravenclaws, yes and Macmillan, too, hadn't _just_ been deriding their Head... but his _wife_. And he expects that will be a problem in the near future. And, um, he sort of thinks they might need to do something about that?  
  


Predictably, the laughter stops. 

"Theo..." Tracey starts in a softly warning tone. It's a little funny as she's completely out of... well, _everything_ , really. She's well clear of the war, or as much as anyone _can be_ in their House. She wasn't even a member of Umbridge's Inquisitorial Squad. She has no idea how bad it is... out there, but _she_ thinks she needs to remind _him_. As though his own father weren't one of the Dark Lord's oldest... whatever they are, and one of the only remaining ones, at that, too. No, Theo knows the realities of, well, _reality_ , all too well. That doesn't mean he's _wrong_. Just, possibly, swimming in dangerous waters. _Very_ dangerous waters. 

But he's sure he's _right_. 

Vincent is ready to cut him down, but Blaise swoops in to stop Vince and to give Theo some cover, possibly because he's still feeling the high of their duelling success. And of course, Vince is a troglodyte and Theo has a good head and heart, and if one were to listen to only one of the two of them, it should clearly be _Theo_. He just needs to be given a chance to be heard. Blaise can arrange that. And he can't help wondering why Theo is the only one of them walking around without a Serpent. It probably also helps that he still has Professor Snape's admonition to follow Theo's lead kicking about his thoughts. 

"The Head _himself_ specifically said we were to treat _her_ with _respect_. He was _very_ clear." And like that, all objections are silenced for the moment as they think it through. 

Obviously, not everyone has the same capacity for doing so, and it's not all too long before Vince mutters something about how Blaise and Theo can't possibly be serious about protecting the _Mudblood_... Alberta is quick to agree, and they find some comfort in mutually reaffirming their prejudices. 

Theo goes a little pale, wondering if he's overplayed his hand, but luck and Blaise are on his side. Zabini just smirks and replies, "Old Nott _himself_ owled Theo that he should support Professor Snape with this in _any_ way he can. He knows _exactly_ what happened, and more than any of us, I'd wager. So what do _you_ think he meant? And if _the Head_ says we're to do this, do you think it wise to ignore _him_?" 

And then his smirk twists, becoming cruel. He and his family may not be part of the Death Eaters, but Blaise knows his way around power, it's practically instinctive for him, and he is _far_ smarter than Vince will ever be. "Or do you really mean to suggest that Norman Nott has gone _soft_? Or _Professor Snape_?"

Vince is paler now than Theo ever got. He knows exactly where his father stands, dwarfed in Nott's shadow. Theo isn't - will _never_ be - the kind of Death Eater Vincent intends to become, but there can be no question about the respect due to his father. And the Professor... Well. No, it's clear where the men stand. 

Which makes the discussion that follows an interesting and unusual thing. They very much _don't_ agree on the blood purity questions in Slytherin. More than a few of them think war is foolish and wasteful of magical resources. If one wishes to count lives as such, too, so be it. They are unquestionably one of many assets _lost_. For the majority, the fact remains: war is stupidity. But each side recognising that no matter _how_ things end, it could prove highly disadvantageous to have articulated such thoughts, they rarely speak openly with one another on the matter. 

And yet here they're faced with a safely contained issue. A single, _specific_ case, where one needn't suggest that the course of behaviour anyone recommends arises from anything other than a desire to be loyal to their House or Head. Certainly _none_ of them are blood traitors or Mudblood-lovers. 

Probably. 

So the question is how should they behave respective their Head's bondmate. And what should they do if she's faced with abuse from others? How do they act? How do they respond?

Tracey informs Theo and Blaise, "While you were apparently busy duelling the Ravenclaws, _Madam Snape_..." A few people draw sharp breaths at that, but Tracey has little patience for them, replying sharply, "Yes, get ahold of yourselves. We're all agreed that will take some adjustment, but Merlin's blighted bollocks, you have brains in your heads, have you not?" She's not too sure that's true of Vince, to name just one example, but it seems judicious to make that claim. 

"Either way," she returns her attention to her Potions classmates, "the witch left lunch before you even got here after arguing with Potter and the Weasel."

She shifts to the others at the table, trying to drive her point home, "Slighting Madam Snape is tantamount to slighting _our_ Head and _our_ House." 

When Alberta and Pansy begin to object, she stops them with a raised hand and continues, "I know we didn't ask for this, but I don't believe for a moment any of you think _he_ did either. Or for that matter that Granger did." 

Again, Pansy moves to object, Millicent and Vince now joining in. Tracey doesn't stop, "There's _no way_ she's been manoeuvring to get herself bonded to the Professor. That's ridiculous. Or do you think there's the remotest chance that she outfoxed _him_ to do so?" Several people shake their heads, even though the question was clearly rhetorical, their feelings on the matter overriding their sense of decorum. "I have her in enough of my classes. Blaise, Theo, you, too. You can't tell me you believe any more than I do that she wanted this." 

Theo instantly nods his agreement, Blaise follows a moment later, just a bit more reserved. Pansy now laughs and does as well, expanding on it, "No, Merlin knows she's been mooning after the Weasel for half an age."

Daphne corrects a little softly, "I think less so lately..." But Vince's half-automatic, "Blood-traitor!" drowns it out for the most part. 

Sixth year Harper Hutchinson, a strong tactician, ignores them both, "Either way, the others seem to be cutting her loose. That creates a void, provides opportunities." When Tracey looks like she's about to protest, if only on principle, he shifts direction just as smoothly as he would on his broom during a Quidditch match, "We'll need to step up a little." 

There's some further debate as to what that might entail. How far they're willing to go. 

"How many House points are we willing to let it cost us?" Harper, ever practical, enquires of the group as the discussion winds down.

Flora Carrow challenges, "Does it matter, if we believe it's the right course of action?"

Her twin sister Hestia had laughed and answered simultaneously, "Does it matter? It's not like Dumblebore has any intention of letting us win." Harper looks at them both and now laughs as well, so similar and yet so different. 

Theo thinks back to how the Head had sorted the aftermath of the duel a bit ago, "I think the Professor will try to see to it we don't lose too many off of this if we can maintain at least the appearance of having been in the right." 

And now it's Blaise's turn to laugh, wholeheartedly. "A veneer of respectability, then. We just need to make it look like we're keeping things... clean." His family practically wrote the tome on the subject. 

"Don't Hex first," Harper agrees with a smile. "But _when_ you do, don't get caught." His eyes are positively sparkling with glee at the thought. This sounds like it's going to be fun. _House sanctioned_ fun. 

There's an strange moment as they look around the table and realise they've actually spoken their minds and voiced most of their objections for once, and they're more or less in agreement. An odd state of affairs. It's sort of... nice.  
  


Conversation turns to the afternoon Quidditch practice. With four members of the team sporting Serpents, somehow it doesn't seem likely that they're going to have a very productive session this evening. 

Valerie Vaisey, sixth year Chaser, turns to Flora. This is her sister Hestia's second year on the team now, the Carrow girl is a fellow Chaser with some truly remarkable skills on a broom. Valerie figures Hestia won't have learnt to fly in isolation, and they _are_ identical twins after all. Valerie also remembers first year with Madam Hooch in Broom Flight Class. Both Carrows had been rather stunning, even on the school's wonky brooms. "Any chance you could fill in, just for practice?"

Flora, however, has none of her sister's inclination to fly about a pitch. Whatever for? She's far from miserable on a broom, no, she knows what she's doing well enough, but can't for the life of her see the _attraction_ of the sport. Why would she? As she sees it, the only thing she has going for her beyond her green thumbs is the brain between her ears. Why on earth would she risk it with flying Bludgers and Beaters' bats and the like? She'd have to be mental... "We're not interchangeable you know," she retorts, a little vexed. 

Hestia can't quite seem to make up her mind if she finds that funny, or the possible insinuation that the twins are essentially the same just as annoying as her sister does. 

Before she can decide one way or another and the girls get themselves _too_ ruffled, Harper butts in, "There's no point, either way. The whole idea of practice is to have the people who will _actually_ be playing in the match get some _practice_ in. What's the use if it's just the three of us?" He gives the seventh year boys a look of reproach. Gregory at least turns slightly pink. He's hardly the best Snake, as reflexes like that amply demonstrate. He should have gotten over it first year. 

Harper proceeds, "But I heard the Ravenclaws whinging to Potter that we hadn't left them any practice time..." That's instantly met with a chorus of objections. "No, relax. _Please_." There's a hint of disdain about it that anyone could be so foolish as to think he was such a pushover. "I wasn't going to suggest we give _them_ the slot, but the Hufflepuffs will be in the same boat. What do you say, we offer it to them, and they can owe us one?"

"May as well," Valerie agrees. "The Ravenclaws will never believe we're doing it out of the goodness of our hearts anyway."  
  


As they get down to discussion of practice and their strategy for the upcoming match, Theo rises, surplus to requirements, making his excuses and taking a couple of pasties with him, thinking he just might catch Draco before their next class.  
  


Hermione, quite reasonably, will undoubtably be _thrilled_ when they approach her.

* * *

  


Hermione's deeply lost in thought and doesn't hear her name called out. It comes as a complete surprise to her a moment later when someone reaches out to grab her arm. Startled, she whips around quickly, wand in hand, only to realise she now has that wand pointed rather uncomfortably at Luna's throat.

"Holy Cricket, Luna!" She packs her wand back up her sleeve, but she's trembling somewhat noticeably, and Luna considers her suspicions about Hermione's state of mind confirmed. Keeping her hands visible, she gently puts them on Hermione's arms and leans forward and... yes, Hermione is fairly certain the blonde just _sniffed_ her. 

This will probably have something to do with Nargles, she's sure. 

It actually has more to do with the very, _very_ , blessedly _extremely_ faint trace of the smell of valerian root about her, a telltale sign of Calming Draught. Or proximity in the passing week to Ron's socks. Hardly a good thing. Either, really. 

Thankfully, Hermione is unaware of this, Luna's sense of smell is highly refined or she wouldn't have caught it, and it fades rapidly from one's system before the Draught even wears off. Even more fortunately, the citrus and patchouli notes of valerian become stronger when brewed, more than balancing the somewhat... funky basenote, but the combination of the three is very telling. The hint of lavender Luna had scented, stronger by far, could have been anything, shampoo, soap, the lingering scent of a magical blanket... But combined with the valerian, Luna is quite sure her friend is taking Calming.

And yet here she stands, trembling. Easily startled. Awfully quick to think the worst, to draw her wand. _Despite_ the Potion.

If Potions and Care of Magical Creatures weren't offered at the same time, and were she any less committed to becoming a Magizoologist, Luna would have been exceptional in that course. She uses senses when brewing that most people wouldn't think to. Much like Severus does, in fact.  
  


"Hermione..." she doesn't get further than that. 

"I took something to eat with me!" Hermione starts in defensively, already fearing the worst, and holding up her now slightly smushed pastie, clenched in her hand and waving it just a bit manically in front of Luna's face. 

"Easy, relax." Again she raises a hand, this time to lower Hermione's pastie wielding arm. There's an element of self-interest there, too, because the thing is sort of... dripping. "I _know_ you did. I saw you take it before you left the Great Hall. Good for you, Hermione." 

Hermione looks sceptical, feeling humoured, _managed_ , and Luna, smiling, reassures her, "No, it _is_. It's _good_ for you." 

That statement hovers between them, and Hermione eventually realises it wasn't simply a matter of praise. 

"About your bonding..." Luna starts. Again, she doesn't get far. 

Hermione has been _dreading_ this. 

_No one_ seems to have reacted well to the news from the outset. Some might come around, but the initial response is _always_... unpleasant. And if she's learnt anything from her interactions with Harry and Ron, it'll be that her _not_ having told them about the bonding herself while she sat there, closemouthed, beside them had made things far worse. Not that she _could_ have, but that wasn't the point. It _had_ made them angrier and contributed to their falling out. 

As Luna is the only one beyond Harry to have shown any concern when she landed in the Infirmary this weekend... Hermione's had plenty of chances to tell her friend about the bonding, at least, she thinks, she _worries_ that's how Luna will see it. 

She assumes this will be just another person feeling she's let her down. Betrayed their friendship. The accusations are a forgone conclusion. The only thing in question is the intensity of the reproaches. 

"Luna, _please_ ," it sounds a _lot_ like the plea that it is. "I'm not up to any more fighting..." Hermione, indeed, sounds beaten, and she's looking frazzled. "I just can't take it anymore, and frankly, I haven't had enough sleep for this." 

Luna, being Luna, surprises Hermione completely. Without comment, because, really, Hermione isn't letting her finish her sentences anyway, she digs about in the bag slung over one shoulder and fishes out a grapefruit sized silver blob which she then transfers to her left hand. That certainly was _not_ any of the responses Hermione was expecting. Luna keeps rummaging, and a moment later has a second blobby sphere shape in her other hand. 

She promptly extends one of them towards Hermione. 

Hermione, a mite foolishly, stands there blinking. 

"I brought you a wedding present," Luna explains. Not that it clarifies what the thing actually _is_ , not at all, probably a Snorkack detector or something, but at least it defines the category into which it falls. 

Hermione takes the proffered object in her free hand and Luna thankfully explains, because Hermione is at rather a loss. "I thought candleholders would be appropriate."

That's actually a very helpful clue, and now Hermione has an idea of how to orientate the thing. In fact, now that she's done so, she thinks she recognises what it had originally been. "Swede?" 

"Neeps," Luna nods smiling broadly, confirming Hermione's identification. Frankly, it makes perfect sense from someone who wears radish earrings and carrot green fascinators. "I cut the bottoms off so they'll stand smoothly without wobbling upside down, and then cored them to hold both a standard sized candle or a tea light," she points proudly, and Hermione spots the two concentric circles of different depths in the top, "And then I Transfigured them to silver. Well, not _real_ silver, obviously, that would be Alchemy, but then you know that..." Luna trails off as Hermione stands there, staring at the thing, blinking more and more rapidly. 

"Congratulations?" Luna tries. Hermione still doesn't respond.

"I'm very sorry the Professor isn't feeling well. Padma mentioned that he'd missed class, and I know it must be bad for him to do so, because he doesn't really..." Hermione could be a statue for all the response Luna is getting. A little hopefully she goes on, "But I'm _sure_ he'll recover soon?" 

It comes out sounding more like a question, it's unclear if that's because she _isn't_ sure of the truth of the statement or just what else to say to reach her friend, but it seems to work because Hermione lets out a sob and gives her a huge hug. It makes a _tremendous_ difference that Luna is probably the only student Hermione considers herself likely to speak with to be _hopeful_ for his recovery. Hermione had been _desperate_ for him to get well, _terrified_ he wouldn't, and it made the... cold responses from her classmates, her other _friends_... Difficult.

Luna simply holds her, running her fingers through Hermione's wild hair to cradle her head against her shoulder and letting her cry.  
  


"You'll be good for his Wrackspurts, you know," Luna assures her after a time. "Well, against them, really, but you understood what I meant." Hermione nods a little wetly, wiping the tears from her cheeks with her the back of her pastie clutching hand. And isn't that a scary thought, understanding Luna?

The Ravenclaw lets her slowly out of the hug, takes her by the wrist, both of Hermione's hands now awkwardly full, and leads her over to one of the castle's infamous alcoves behind a statue of a pirouetting troll. There's probably a story behind that. It looks sort of like one of Barnabas the Barmy's troupe. It certainly seems hard to believe anyone else would have been so foolish as to try to teach a troll ballet. Training security trolls may or may not be easier, but at least it makes more _sense_. Security trolls, however, presumably make for blander statuary; they're decidedly uninspirational subjects. 

Ever so practically, there's a bench in the alcove. Really, it's enough to make one wonder if the architectural niche has any significance, some intended purpose, perhaps... Mostly it serves to collect snogging students of an evening, and makes the Prefects' jobs easier when on Hallway Patrol. Checking alcoves with seating first narrows things down, streamlining the task. It's not like the students could create seating out of almost anything if they wanted somewhere to sit... Yes. Laziness is endemic amongst the student body, as is a lack of creativity. 

Luna, by contrast, has an abundance both of industry and imagination. Possibly an _oversupply_ , but in many respects, it makes for a pleasant change. As does Luna. 

She leads Hermione to the stone slab and tells her to take a seat. Then she hands Hermione the second turnip candleholder, which Hermione places along with the first on the bench between them, and Luna hunts around in her bag until she finds one tea light and one tapered candle, which she puts into the holders. 

"Proof of concept?" Hermione asks with a watery smile, but it's becoming more sincere the longer she's with Luna. 

"No, I just can't seem to find two of either of the candles. I know they're somewhere in here." The scary thing of course is that Luna's bag _hasn't_ been extended. It's just as chaotic as her mind. It has, however, very fortunately been magically lightened, or there's probably no one in the school, except maybe Hagrid, who could manually lift it. 

"These are fine," Hermione reassures her with a bemused smile, lighting the candles with an Incendio. "They're lovely." The candleholders are actually surprisingly nice for something crafted with what happened to be on hand last night, not that most people have swede lying about, but, hey, _Luna_. The silver surfaces - they remind Hermione of Mercury glass - reflect the candlelight nicely, their slight unevenness causing the reflections to break, throwing interesting shadows. But of course it's the sentiment behind them that makes them truly beautiful. 

"Thank you," she tells her sincerely, and the last trace of her teary fit gone.

"I thought they'd be pretty," Luna tells her, and with a soft but determined smile adds, "and remind you to eat." Hermione lets out a huff of laughter, because Luna can be unexpectedly single-minded. And because the _last_ thing Hermione thinks of when she looks at turnips is _eating_. 

Luna's still rooting about. Finally, there's an exclamation of success and, naturally, she surprises Hermione with the results of her searching once again. Extending her hand to reveal the contents, a small napkin wrapped parcel, she says, "I brought you a couple more pasties. Yours looks a little... the worse for wear."

A Protego Charm, very _precisely_ wielded, seems to have kept them from flattening in her bag. Nothing less would have, but it's clear proof of the advantages of reading, if ever there were any, that one might know such a thing _before_ it's needed. 

Hermione looks at her pastie and has to admit it does indeed seem... less than pristine. But not out loud. Luna Tergeos Hermione's hand and supplies a second napkin to spread out on the bench and put the food on. Given the drippy state of Hermione's pastie, Luna also Imperviuses the books beside Hermione, thinking, rightly so, the witch will probably stack the food on them when she heads to class. 

Hermione thanks her for the consideration. That seems to be something of a House trait that Hermione certainly values, the Ravenclaws' respect of all things printed. 

They lean back against the walls of the alcove and Hermione begins to eat. 

"Have you been?" Luna asks, gesturing at the pastie. "Eating?"

Hermione swallows and nods. "I haven't missed a meal since I promised you I wouldn't yesterday." 

"Will you try to get more into you than just pasties? They're not exactly the stuff of a balanced diet. People _really_ don't put enough thought into what they put in their bodies," she shakes her head. One of the cornerstones to being a good Magizoologist, naturally, is recognising the importance of the proper sustenanance. "So much of it's basically poison."

"I've had plenty of fruit," Hermione hurries to assure her, and as she says it, a tempting bunch of grapes appears between them. Hermione laughs. "As you can see, in fact. Lots of grapes. Would you like some?"

"Where did they come from?"

"There's a House elf who seems to share your opinion about a healthy diet."

"The Professor's?" Luna asks, getting it in one, and helping herself to the fruit. Hermione nods, joining her. "How nice. I like him already." As if in answer, more grapes appear. Luna laughs and adds a, "Thank you."

She tilts her head thoughtfully, innocently to the side, but with Luna, that's a sure sign she's about to go for the throat. "And how does he feel about the amount of sleep you're getting?"

Hermione blinks a little owlishly. She thinks for a moment what she can say to placate her friend, because she knows this is going to go the same way as the food discussion. Honestly, if she _could have_ , she _would have_ slept more. It's not like she's trying to miss sleep... But it's no good, she'd already damned herself with her own words, as Luna proceeds to prove, "You said you hadn't gotten enough sleep to fight. That sounds... worrisome. Especially considering how often you seem to have to. Fight." 

She says it softly, and Hermione gets the feeling Luna's expressing her support. She knows Hermione had fought only yesterday with Harry and Ron. And she apparently saw her fighting with the two of them today. It sounds like... it holds... _understanding_ without demanding that Hermione explore that problem, too, just now. Luna's taking it one challenge at a time. Hermione's probably not up to more. 

"So are you getting enough? Sleep?"

"No," she admits. 

"It's important to get your rest, Hermione. Take a Potion if need be, just until things get better. I'm sure the Professor would give you Dreamless Sleep if you need it."

"That's not the problem, Luna. And he'd already offered it, actually."

"Well, there you go then. Great minds..." she replies with a wink.

But Hermione isn't in a light mood. "No, if anything the problem is he was in no shape to even be able to offer it again..." Hermione can't say anymore, well she _can_ \- the word 'can't' has taken on new meaning since the Headmaster's damn Oath, but she _can't_ without exposing facts about the Professor's role in the war and business of the Order that she wouldn't dream of revealing. And now that she thinks about it, maybe she really 'can't' after all. She's still not quite sure how the Loyalty Oath works. Perfect. 

Luna, however, has some insights into what Hermione might not be saying. Certainly since she went up against a dozen or so adult Death Eaters at the sides of her friends when she was only a fifteen year old and in her fourth year. Luna probably has more courage than half of Gryffindor taken together and at least as much loyalty as any given Hufflepuff. But she doesn't ask the obvious questions, smart enough to know when there can't be a response. Ultimately, there are reasons she's a Ravenclaw. 

"But is he _now_?" She caught the past tense and zeros in on the heart of the matter. She sounds genuinely concerned, and Hermione's grateful for that. More than she can express. 

"He regained consciousness." And if she is properly interpreting the things the bond conveys... He's in a _very_ strange state. Agitated doesn't begin to explain it. Hermione isn't at all certain _how_ to explain it. But he's awake, and not suffering, just... Well, he sure seems to be... grumpy. 

Luna smiles softly to express her relief. She won't pry as to what had put the man in the Infirmary. And, yes, she'd heard the rumours. It's shocking the rubbish people will believe. "So maybe ask him for the Dreamless Sleep? But just see to it that you finally get some rest."

Hermione feels a little defensive and responds accordingly, hoping to make Luna grasp some of the problems she's facing. After all, the blonde has indicated that she'd noticed some of the fighting and maybe _that_ will make her more sympathetic to the problems. It doesn't help that Hermione doesn't take well to criticism. "But it's not like getting sleep is going to _change _anything. How awful some people are being..."__

"No," Luna concedes quietly. "But the battle you have to fight is the same either way, it's best to be as prepared for it as you can be." She lets that hang in the air between them. Hermione hasn't got a response, she pretty much knows her friend is right anyway, but she's just not come far enough to say so.

Apropos of nothing, Luna asks, "Hermione, would you take a N.E.W.T. without studying?" 

Not that Hermione understands the reasons for the question, but that is such a _fundamental_ truth, the reply is instant, "No, of course not." 

"Right. But does studying for it change what's on the exam?" 

Hermione will be the first to admit she doesn't always follow Luna's train of thought. In fact, while the rest of the world has trains of thought, it's entirely possible Luna has dirigible airships. It would certainly help explain the flights of fancy. "What??" 

"Do the questions change based on whether you've studied or not?" 

"You mean Murphy's law?" 

"I don't know who Murphy is and I'm unfamiliar with his laws, but sure, if that's what it's called." 

"No, the questions don't change. That's just superstition."

Luna doesn't bother pointing out that Hermione herself had only just called it a 'law'. The Muggle-born can be hard for pure-bloods to follow. "So why do you study?"

_Why does she study?_ That is definitely _not_ a question Hermione thought she'd ever have to answer for a _Ravenclaw_. "So I'm _prepared_. _Why else_?"

"But you see, it's same thing. All other things being equal, you try to be as prepared as you _can be_. It's the same with food. Or sleep. They won't change the things you're dealing with, they just make _you_ better prepared to do so." She's gentle, _incredibly_ gentle, patting Hermione's hand as she says it.

"You have to do what you _can_ to be in the best shape you can be to face the things you _can't_ change or influence. Change the things you can, especially if it's _easy_..." It's easy to forget how young she was when her mum died. Anyone who's ever met her father will have no trouble believing _she's_ the one taking care of _him_. As best she can, anyway. She's learnt a lot along the way. 

She gestures towards the grapes, helping herself again. Without thinking, Hermione mirrors her friend's gesture, breaking off a stem of the grapes for herself. 

For the second time in days, Hermione sits there wondering if Luna hasn't more clue than any of the rest of them. Possibly more than all of them put together. It's a little unsettling, but she's growing more comfortable with the notion. She sighs, shrugs and then tells her honestly, "I just haven't got the strength right now." 

And Luna beams and squeezes her hand, "That's what you have friends for."

Hermione can't help wondering if that's true. _Friends_? _What_ friends? _Some_ friends she has... And then kicks herself. She's an _arse_. Sitting across from her, no matter _how_ odd or _how_ flighty, is undeniably a _very_ good friend. Probably one of the best you could wish for. 

She stops feeling quite as sorry for herself and thanks Luna. "And I'll try to get some sleep tonight," she promises. 

"Oh, you'll sleep well tonight," Luna replies, her tone cajoling, apparently trying to reassure her. Hermione takes it for an attempt at positive thinking. "Just try to keep doing so." 

She gives Hermione's hand a squeeze, and tells her they need to get going to class, "But I'll check in on you later."

Hermione's still trying to picture how _that_ would go - _Oh, hullo, Professor, I'm just here to see your wife_ \- never mind that Luna doesn't even know where her new quarters are, as she rises, extinguishes the candles and packs her presents with a smile into her bag, grabs what remains of their food and follows her friend from the alcove.

Luna gives her a hug and sends her on her way before turning to skip off down the hallway. Only then does Hermione even register the blonde's mismatched shoes. She's torn between a 'retro eighties fashion statement' or 'Nargles' for the explanation. It's probably simpler: 'Luna'.

* * *

  


Severus is thoroughly tired of considering a certain witch and whatever is going on with her. Which is fine, more than reasonable, and makes perfect sense, but unfortunately doesn't _help_ as every time he resolves to ignore her, some new wave of... emotion gets through and calls her back to mind again. 

It's wearing. 

Thoroughly disgruntled, he is _not_ grumpy, he rises from the couch and makes his unsteady way to his laboratory. "I'm fine," he tells a disbelieving cat, lifting a long-fingered hand in an arresting gesture to dissuade him from commenting (he may be drunker than he realises), opening the door and sort of tumbling into the room, eloquently making Crook's point for him. 

Severus needs to fetch a Sober Up Potion to have at the ready, on hand before he's not in any shape to do so. He never knows when he'll be called... He glares at his left arm as if it were responsible for all the evils in the world and had subjected _him_ to them instead of the other way around. Not that he's called during school, really. Certainly not during classes. Usually not even during the week, to be honest. There's no need to exaggerate the situation. 

It's unbelievably bad enough as is. He sighs. 

As he enters the laboratory he spots a portrait, face down on the floor. He'd almost forgotten. He laughs darkly. Oh yes, Minerva's centaurs. _Just_ what he needs. He goes over and picks it up, the centaurs - still effectively almost completely immobilised - look worried, but perhaps not worried enough. No matter. They'll learn. 

He's a teacher after all. He smiles. 

He props it against the cupboards beneath his work table and then begins to cast about for an... appropriate substance. He settles on a bottle of Spirit of Turpentine. And then he Summons a very fine short bristled brush. 

"And how are we today?" He enquires menacingly of the portrait. There can be no answer. He's trying to decide how he feels about that, there _are_ pros and cons, and then decides to defer any decision about lifting or altering the Curse that holds the ungulates still until he's sober. It wouldn't do to have overlooked something and have them escape the portrait. 

No. It wouldn't do at all. 

But they'd sat, stood, whatever, watching, _listening_ to Miss Granger's cries, her screams and pleas for help. He'd seen the boys' memories. He knew that she had. He'd seen her tears. He would now rather like to hear _their_ screams. Honestly, he'd sort of like to hear the boys' screams as well, but he'll settle for the centaurs'. For the moment. 

They'd just taken it all in, eager to see the... show. He'll assume they liked the sight of her in that chair, and he won't argue that she'd been... memorable, but he can find no justification - no matter how... 

He stops. 

He chooses to avoid adjectives. It would seem they're... dangerous. Every one he's thought of - and instantly rejected, of course - seems to be admitting something there will be _no_ admitting. 

No. 

But no matter _how_ she'd appeared in that chair, for which there are no suitable descriptors, there was no earthly excuse for _watching_. For not getting help. For not fetching _him_. Well, or any other staff, really, but currently he has that privilege. Apparently. Bondmates after all. 

And _these nags had put her at risk_. 

They're about to see the error of their ways. Or at least regret them. He's fine with just that. 

He casts a Charm to clean the brush, he's a professional after all, dips it in the turpentine and then leaning in very closely towards the portrait runs his thumb over the bristles, directing a fine spray of the solvent towards the lower left hand corner of the painting. When he's finished, he repeats the process from the upper right. It takes a moment for the effect to occur. Slowly the paint seems to begin to melt from hundreds of small speckled spots in the areas affected. 

_Now_ the centaurs look properly panicked. 

"Oh, not to worry," he assures him. If they're capable of thought, they won't find his tone _remotely_ reassuring. "I won't keep that up. 

" _Today_. 

"We have plenty of time. And you'll be seeing a lot of me."

He lifts the painting, the colours in the opposite corners still blending and mixing badly, the landscape slowly disappearing from whatever had been touched, and approaches the wall over his work space. Not quite willing to mar the beautifully crafted frame, he appreciates good woodworking, now doesn't he, he finally settles on a Sticking Charm to attach it backwards to the wall. Just in case it makes a difference for the portrait's subjects, he makes it deliberately very crooked, muttering, "A lot of _me_ and not much else," satisfied they're now staring at the wall. 

He may have to do a little research into making things worse for them. Once he finishes his other thousand chores. He laughs. 

Maybe not. 

He thinks it over a moment and decides that even if he _never_ changed a thing, he knows this will be bad enough. Trapped in their own bodies, staring at nothing. Their world shrinking around them. No conversation, no intellectual stimulation. Just... _nothing_ until the end of time. Yes, that seems quite... adequate. 

He's pleased with the solution. 

He stoppers the bottle and sets it on the countertop beneath the painting, magicks the brush clean and lays it close by. He makes a mental note to do this at least a couple of times a week, though. Merlin, he can keep this up until he meets his inevitable end. He may need to devise a more esoteric Sticking Charm, though, so no one else undoes it after his untimely demise. That would be a shame. 

He almost forgets what he came in for, only remembering when he's at the door. He Summons his Sober Up, closes and wards the door behind him, and then returns to stand before the couch he's now contradictorily both too pleased and too cross to sit on again. He misses his chair, damn it. He frowns at his chair again, by now it may be more of a pout, and then scowls at the couch. 

The furniture seems duly impressed.

Largely undaunted by the furniture's apathy, he settles on the floor, sliding into the space in front of the currently offending sofa. He Summons his glass and the Ogden's with which he means to keep filling it. Soon the Kneazle joins him as though he'd been Summoned as well. Not that _that_ works, of course, but there the creature is, curled up at his side, having his head scratched and apparently enjoying it. 

Severus half envies him.  
  


Miss Granger's Charms... He snorts. Yes. Her _Charms_ had worked too well and there's precious little fur left lying about. He was somewhat disappointed. But as his own robes haven't received the same attention, now that he and the animal seem to have gotten... chummy, he's able to gather and Banish the fur from them straight to Crabbe's bed. He does so with relish. That earns the cat another thorough scratching, and butting his head against Severus' hand, Crooks responds with a protracted purr.

* * *

  


Draco's returning from the Owlery, the letter to his mother well underway. Mercury is likely to make his way to her directly, not wasting time sleeping or hunting. He's very well trained. Draco had been careful to go into some detail about his recovery from his injuries, lobbying somewhat transparently for sympathy. His mother had been concerned about his well being, naturally. She _had_ asked after his condition, of course, seeking confirmation of Severus' report, but she was far more, _far more_ concerned about his evident moral decline. 

He's feeling a bit loathsome, deservedly, he's reasonably sure, when he runs into Morag MacDougal, who's apparently on her way back from visiting her friends in the Infirmary. Morag is sort of like a female version Severus, first and foremost, _striking_. Draco thinks it looks better on her, but that might be because he's a heterosexual male. She's tall with a lanky build, incredibly pale with exceedingly long, straight, silky black hair. Not beautiful, but probably still pretty, although the distinctiveness of her looks tends to overshadow that aspect. Her hands are elegant, capable, and her mouth so very expressive. 

Not that he's spent all that much time watching it, but he _had_ happened to have noticed.  
  


Draco hesitates fractionally as she approaches, not sure quite where they stand. They _had_ just been hexing one another not so very long ago. Well, she _him_ more so than the reverse, but still... 

Morag solves that by calling out rather cheerily, "Malfoy!" Hailing him almost as one might a friend. It leaves Draco a little confused. "Did you come for more?" She asks. 

His confusion must be showing, although she misinterprets the reason for it. She gestures towards his face, "The red is almost completely gone. I could refresh it for you?" Her tone is playful, almost flirtatious. She reminds him a little of Myrtle. And _no one_ else outside of his House speaks to him that way. 

Morag is completely at ease around him. It helps that she hasn't got her friends there to judge her for it, and that Malfoy hasn't got his posse leering, trying to live up to some silly reputation... That she's confident of her abilities with her wand, and that she's blissfully unaware of _his_ true capabilities. She feels safe in her thoroughly unrealistic little bubble. It also helps that Morag wasn't in the DA, and hasn't many of the associations with Malfoy and his lot that some of her friends do. For her, he's just another classmate. And a fairly cute one, too. 

She just keeps coming as Draco doesn't answer. When she's right in front of him, too close, really, she lifts a hand to his face and with one finger extended trails softly along the line of his cheekbone, still ever so slightly reddened, following the line to his ear where she begins to do the same. Frankly, it sends a shiver down Draco's spine, for more reasons than one. 

He'd been feeling low, _very_ low after reading his mother's letter. She'd made it all too clear how little she thought of his recent actions, and honestly, he's inclined to agree. He can't think of a single valid argument to raise in response. There's nothing to be said in his defence. He's fairly convinced he's Death Eater scum. Plain and simple. 

Ugly. 

MacDougal's presence, her manner... They really do remind of Myrtle, and have him beginning to feel better for similar reasons. There's an acceptance there. A lack of fear or judgment that he finds... comforting. If she isn't frightened of him, isn't disgusted by him... Then _maybe_ he isn't the monster his mother seems to think he's become.  
  


Or the girl's just stupid. 

It's a strong possibility. 

She _certainly_ doesn't clearly see who is standing before her, but then _that_ had been one of the key ingredients in his relationship with Moaning Myrtle, too. They don't know who he really is. It _definitely_ devalues their acceptance. Still, he welcomes even the illusion of it. 

There's something surreal in having the Muggle-born, the _Mudblood_ standing there, effectively caressing him. He has to fight with himself not to stop her, not to roll up his sleeve to attest to the complete absurdity of her gesture... 

And truthfully, she's good with her hands. Merlin knows, he's watched them often enough in Potions. 

He's almost purring as her index finger works its way down his ear when she pulls back slightly and... tweaks it. _Bloody buggering..._

" _Merlin's blighted..._ " he whines. 

"Bollocks," she interrupts. "I know. 'Merlin's blah blah...' What is it with you pure-bloods? It's like you don't know how to curse." He's staring at her as though she were an alien being. It's not inappropriate, as she essentially _is_. 

"Someone tweaks your freshly Hexed ear, the proper response is 'Fuck.'" And now he's staring at her lips. Morag, of course, is very aware of it. The Fuck-me-Raw lippy she'd gotten at Harrods helps ensure that response, anyway. Those were _several_ well-invested quid. 

Unaffected, she continues, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, "You have no idea how much time I've invested in teaching ours to swear properly. And _this_ , Malfoy, is what comes from not having any Muggle-borns in your House." 

Then she leans in, _so closely_ , and whispers into that freshly Hexed ear. If he thought her finger stroking his cheek was surreal... His brain might be melting, just a little. "Come on," she breathes, and he swears to Merlin the hairs on the back of his neck are standing at attention, "Say it with me. 

"' _Fuck_.'"

Gobsmacked, he does. But probably because it's the only appropriate response, "Fuck." It's just as whispered as hers was, and he has to lick his lips and swallow hard before he can do so. 

"Good boy," she answers, her lips just brushing his ear.

He stands there blinking, thoroughly idiotically, and she withdraws. "I _saw_ you hesitate to Hex me. That's bollocks. I can handle myself." He would tend to agree. His general inability to form thoughts, never mind _words_ , backs that up. Fucking hell. "Next time, don't flinch." And then she leans forward and plants a light kiss on his cheek, which is now very red again for entirely different reasons, as though that hadn't been drummed out of him as a Firstie, and she wanders off down the corridor with a wave, "I have History of Magic next, but I'll see you in Herbology."  
  


Fuck indeed.

* * *

  


Hermione gets to Arithmancy early, which is hardly anything new. For the classes she has _without_ Harry and Ron, she tends to be... overly punctual, as she doesn't have to hang about waiting for her... friends. The little... rotters. 

Hmm. Yes. Well. 

She's wasted enough time worrying about _them_ today, and she doesn't feel like letting them put a damper on the mood Luna had... conjured. That's about right, really, because she truly does work magic. 

Hermione props herself against the wall, waiting for Professor Vector to arrive and let them into the classroom. She's rather had her fill of pasties, but the grapes... They really are calling out to her. Luna had seemed to agree, they were delicious. She floats her books next to her with a Wingardium Leviosa and resumes snacking on her fruit. 

With a smile, she's just considering pulling out one of her candleholders and adding it to the still life. A little atmosphere... It might be nice. 

Which of course is precisely when Malfoy arrives. Thinking of rotters...  
  


It's just the two of them in the hallway, no one else in sight, and he freezes when he sees her and the two stand there staring at one another, unsure quite what to do or say. 

Well, not entirely unsure. Hermione drew her wand instantly, that much at least seemed clear, and Draco holds his hands palms out, lifted away from his body, trying to appear as non-threatening as he can. Right now, that's probably a lost cause, but it's a well intentioned start, and helps. At least a little. 

She hasn't Hexed him yet, anyway. 

He's just about to back out of the hallway and go wait somewhere else, _anywhere_ else, there's little point provoking the witch, when the Bloody Baron suddenly appears between them, nodding quietly at them both. 

He doesn't whisper a word.  
  


Draco's not entirely certain, but if he had to say one way or another, he'd say the Baron stands... _floats_ closer to Granger. Madam Snape. And he's surprised to see her posture seem to relax as he does so. So much so, that she returns to her previous position, lounging against the wall, and goes back to eating. Perhaps more slowly and vigilantly, but then he isn't to know that. 

He watches her do so with a little envy. It's making him more conscious of the fact he'd skipped lunch. 

He's also acutely aware that all it had taken was her minute flinch when she saw him to have him feeling even worse than he'd done after reading his mother's owl. Anything he might have told himself because MacDougal was comfortable bussing his cheek, anything self-deluding along the lines that he wasn't some monstrous creature... Well, that's done now. 

Over. 

He's a toad, suited for nothing but the Frog Choir, a misnomer if ever there were one. If the person responsible were gathering Potions ingredients, they'd have the castle reduced to rubble inside of a week. 

Draco moves so he's as far from her as the space permits and on the opposite side of the corridor, but subconsciously he's soon mimicking her pose, leaning against his own patch of wall. 

He's thinking about her response to him. It had clearly been instinctive, visceral. She sees precisely the beast his mother fears he's becoming. It makes every accusation of hers seem all the more true. _Deserved_. 

He's back to that again. 

He contrasts her response to MacDougal's, not that he wants Granger pecking his cheek... Merlin, Severus would gut him. More thoroughly than Potter had, that's a certainty... But he'd just fought with MacDougal, less than an hour before, and _she_ had no issues with him. No apprehension. No... fear.

He knows Granger isn't timid. She's _not_ fearful, she's proven that often enough. She took on his father and his cohorts, outnumbered two to one and didn't surrender, and as he understands it, had come close to being gutted at the end of Dolohov's wand herself. No, she's not easily frightened. 

But she'd flinched when she saw him.  
  


He hangs his head and the threesome stands there, floats there, silently. 

That is until that silence is broken by the growling of his stomach. 

Granger and the Baron both turn to look at him. 

Granger stares for a moment, and then looks down at the books floating next to her and then back up at him. She looks down again, and he can almost see her thinking. He could swear, he inhales, yes, he's pretty sure she has a pastie there as well. And, irrationally, he's almost got his hopes up when she raises her head to look at him again and then...

Hermione looks down at her food and very deliberately aims her wand and... Vanishes the pastie. 

Then she goes back to eating her grapes. 

The look on Malfoy's face was priceless. He was practically drooling.  
  


Draco just stands there wondering if all Muggle-borns are destined to lead him around by the nose. 

He suspects so.  
  


Hermione feels a little guilty for wasting food, but honestly? She's kind of proud of herself for overcoming that and doing what she had. Malfoy's stomach growls again and she almost laughs. She settles for smirking instead and keeps eating her grapes. Somehow, they taste even better now. 

They stand there in awkward silence for a while and finally Malfoy speaks, "How is Severus?"

She looks at him startled, and the Baron quietly observes the exchange. She replies, her tone accusing, "I'm supposed to believe you care? After what he did to you last night?" 

"That was... complicated," Draco allows. He doesn't think he could ever explain it, and even if he could, it probably wouldn't be safe. And then he wonders why he even feels the desire to do so. He's really not sure. "He's still my godfather. And whatever happened to him yesterday wouldn't have if I hadn't..." He trails off. She probably knows that best of all. 

"No. It wouldn't have." Her agreement comes swiftly and provides no relief. 

Again, he can't really explain the drive to do so, but he looks at her, practically begging her to _see_ him, and very sincerely tells her, "I meant it, yesterday. I _am_ sorry."

But this time she doesn't reply.  
  


The Baron floats there keenly observing them both. 

The Slytherins have a rather unique arrangement with their House ghost. He assists the Prefects with their duties. He can move much faster through the castle, unhindered by _most_ walls and doors, and he's able to discover misbehaving students far more reliably and quickly than the human Prefects will ever be able to. When he finds something promising, he reports to them, and they step in, docking points accordingly. It makes the Slytherin Prefects seem more competent, more thorough, a credit to their House while saving them work, and it increases the points other Houses lose in the bargain. They find the solution... elegant. 

As such, he's worked with the current Malfoy for the last two years. Which makes his stupidity Friday even more glaring. Assuming one could forgive the stupidity, not a given, there were still the... dishonourable actions to address. The Baron is not... pleased with the boys. However, he does... appreciate an apology. When it's sincere. In fact, he feels very strongly that apologies _must_ be made. 

The Obliviations should complicate that. Greatly. That leaves him... conflicted.

He's less sure how he feels about forgiveness. That's ironic, given he's had almost a millennium to come to a conclusion, but he changes his mind too often, every decade or so, and doesn't feel... entitled to make demands in that respect. 

The Baron has an odd relationship to his students. He can remember Malfoy's parents, his father had been a Prefect as well. He knew the grandparents, all four of them, two of them had been Prefects, the great grandparents, all eight, three Prefects, the great great grandparents, all sixteen, five Prefects, the spread in ages had helped... He likes that about the pure-bloods, that he can list all of their relatives, sometimes going all the way back to his own school days. Forty generations, give or take. It helps _tremendously_ , of course, that very few do, and that _those_ overlap a great deal between the family trees. 

Sometimes, when he's trying to make sure he's still... there, sometimes he does just that, listing them all for all of his students. He's proud of his memory. It takes concentration, however. That can be more difficult. 

It's something he finds disconcerting about the Muggle-born. There's no... context. He doesn't know Madam Snape's people. It makes her harder to... understand. 

What he _does_ understand, however, is where his duty lies. He floats closer to the Head's wife, clearly taking up position. He then surprises both students by speaking in his hoarse whisper, "He's survived worse." Madam Snape doesn't look like she finds that comforting, probably because she really doesn't. Malfoy's just surprised he spoke. The Baron tries again, apparently he's not good at being reassuring. "He _will_ recover."

That seems to do a better job. The witch relaxes a little.  
  


The silence stretches and then, after Draco had given up on her saying anything, she answers after all. "He's out of the Infirmary."

"I know," he tells her. "I saw him."

It's Hermione's turn to start, warring between asking him why he asked such a stupid question then and wanting to know how the Professor is. The second impulse wins out. "How was he?" 

Malfoy's answer sounds far more.. patient, kinder than she expected. "I _saw_ him. But that's not quite the same as knowing how he's doing." Having seen the man in action Friday night, she immediately sees the truth in that. "He was upright. That's not saying much."

"Actually, given how much of the past few days he's spent horizontal, that's a _huge_ improvement." Malfoy smiles faintly in response. He looks... relieved. The silence stretches again, and then she takes pity on him, because he seems to... care. Not because it's important to _him_ , she couldn't give a toss, but because that matters to _her_. "Madam Pomfrey says he'll make a full recovery. She expects him back in classes tomorrow," and Malfoy actually sighs audibly in relief at that, she's sure it was genuine, so she continues, giving him an honest answer, "But he probably shouldn't be. He was very badly hurt." She shrugs, "He's just very..."

"Stubborn?"

"I was going to say 'determined', but yeah, 'stubborn' works as well."

Malfoy nods and looks less pleased again, a little grim in fact, and the silence returns. 

She's not sure what made her do it, and again she hears the Professor's voice telling her not to share information about him with others, but she'd just been so... Worried. It's nice to know someone else cares what happens to him. Madam Pomfrey had been right, going by people's reactions today. Too few do. It's really been doing a number on her. She just wants to lash out at them all, the callous... bastards. 

Unexpectedly, _very much so_ , it's making Malfoy easier to... stomach.  
  


She stands there thinking about it, mulling it over, trying to understand her feelings, because she doesn't really. It's strange, and she's having a hard time comprehending it, but somehow she blames Malfoy less for... this... than Ron. 'This' is hard to define. Friday. The bonding. The Professor's injuries. The general response towards the same... All of it. 

Actually, she's beginning to get it. For one thing, she understands Malfoy's response to Ron's mockery of what Harry had done to him. The attack. She gets that completely. She'd even done so _Friday_ , before things got out of hand, but that's not really the issue. Naturally she understands it more so after the fights she's had with Ron the last two days. 

It takes a... _rotten_ thing and makes it... so much _worse_. It had certainly made _her_ angry. Or since when does she run around Hexing people in the hallways?

And she grasps why Malfoy had been more focused on the Halloween costume than his initial attack even, because frankly _she_ cares more about Ron's response to... 'this' than she does about _her_ attack. 

She supposes it helps, loads, obviously, that they both clearly survived the original incidents. Largely unharmed. They _had_ survived. That was something. An accomplishment, really. But then to have someone come along and _make fun_ of you for it... No, it left her seeing red too. 

She doesn't like him. She'll never like him. But, looking at Malfoy now, she thinks she might be able to tolerate him. 

If he keeps his mouth shut and his wand to himself.  
  


She's just getting comfortable with that, feeling proud of herself, and just a touch smug as she finishes her grapes, confident, as though she's mastered her fears when Nott appears and she's back to the bloody beginning. Tense. Her wand in hand. 

Nott doesn't even notice. 

Malfoy does.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Get a Luna. Be a Luna.**


	74. 11 11n Tuesday - Snakes Herding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hermione, Draco, the Bloody Baron, Theo Nott, Tracey Davis, Daphne Greengrass, Severus, Crooks, Harry, Ron, Neville, Hannah Abbott, Lavender, Parvati, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Susan Bones, Blaise Zabini, Pansy Parkinson, Vincent 'Vince' Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, Alberta Runcorn, Millicent 'Millie' Bulstrode, Professor Toirdhealbhack Terrence Call-Me-Terry Taylor, Professor Septima Vector, misc Ravenclaws, mentioned: Ernie Macmillan, Terry Boot, Morag MacDougal, Poppy, Albus, Professor Sarah Sapworthy, Professor Sybill Trelawney, Peeves_

"Draco," Theo calls out, not even looking Hermione's way, but then she isn't as noticeable yet from the direction he'd come. "I brought you something to eat."

He opens the napkin in his hand, and sure enough, there are three pasties. 

"Oh, thank gods." Draco's relief is authentic. Watching Granger eat has only made him hungrier. He reaches for one immediately. 

Which is when Theo finally spots her by the classroom door. He's still firmly in his role. He's the _new_ Theo, a man of consideration, the solver of problems. Obviously he needs to pay his Head's wife the proper respect... 

Hermione, naturally, couldn't begin to guess what's going on in his mind. But then that's a big ask. All she knows is she's in an otherwise deserted corridor, outnumbered two to one by the boys who'd held her captive Friday...  
  


There's a spike of anxiety, surprisingly sharp given the Draughts in her system, but not enough so to cause Severus any more than discomfort where he's sat in chambers. 

Fucking hell. She... No, that's unfair. The _bond_ is making a dangerous situation more so... He's absolutely convinced this thing is going to get him killed, and even if it doesn't _outright_ , it has taken a high risk situation and made it even more so. Albus is a godsdamned idiot. 

He's not entirely sure what that makes _him_ for listening to the man...  
  


Theo turns to the young woman and greets her, "Good afternoon, Madam Snape. I gather you didn't get to eat either." 

He begins to move towards her with the two remaining pasties, his hand holding them out to her to offer her one, or both should she like, and he still fails to properly register how her wand goes up, or the Bloody Baron shifts, becoming decidedly more opaque, between them. Draco, however, understands it immediately. He extends one arm stiffly, rigidly horizontal in front of his friend, stopping him in his tracks, effectively clotheslining him. 

And now Theo, thoroughly baffled, looks from one to the other in confusion. 

Theo's really thriving in his new role. _He_ made his father _proud_. He saved Patil from the explosion, he defended his Head and his wife's honour - successfully, even - against the Ravenclaws, he thought to bring food for his friend, because he's just _that_ attentive, and now he's trying to welcome the Head's wife to the House. So to speak. He feels _good_ about himself. 

And _she_ just stares at him like he's sprouted antlers. 

He actually checks, reflexively lifting a hand to his face and head, _that's_ how intently she's staring. But no, no trace of the Anteoculatia Hex. Or anything else for that matter. 

He doesn't get it. 

Draco doesn't explain, not really, he simply hooks him around the arm and pulls him back to the stretch of wall next to him. And then he swallows his mouthful of food and tells Theo, "She just had something to eat."  
  


The Baron moves closer to the witch and even more softly than usual, pitched so only she can hear, whispers, "You are not alone, Madam." He's... gratified when he sees most of the tension leave the witch's body. 

"But for what it's worth, Madam Snape, I believe he only meant to extend his... hospitality to you as well."

That just leaves Hermione feeling a little guilty again for making the food disappear a few minutes ago. She can probably thank her parents for that reflex. Pity there's not a Charm to Banish it directly to all the proverbial starving children in Africa. Not that a single pastie would help much. 

She feels... petty for Vanishing the food. It's hardly something one aspires to... Although... Honestly? She also thinks she has a _right_ to be if she wants to. And that brings her right back to where she was thinking of all the things she could _want_ to be, and how 'petty' certainly hadn't made the list. 

She's also beginning to weigh how Malfoy's Crucioing and the... ' _fall_ ' down the stairs, the multiple broken bones stack up against her own experience. She's not at all sure it can be measured that way, but still... Somehow no one seems to be coming out of this unscathed. Well, except Ron and Harry. And the Headmaster, of course, who she's starting to think was more thoroughly involved in this than she'll ever understand.  
  


Theo, for his part, assumes Draco's got the wrong end of the wand. Or at the least, given he hadn't been present when the Slytherin upper years had decided how they needed to treat the witch - their Head's _bondmate_ , for Merlin's sake - with _respect_ , that he needs to be set straight. So he proceeds to quietly update his friend.

Almost instantly, Draco realises _that_ will present a problem. Because Theo, Blaise... they have no idea, no clue and will have no understanding for Granger's otherwise inexplicable reaction. How could they? They'd been Obliviated, for fuck's sake. He can easily picture both sides just making things worse. There's no way this doesn't go badly wrong. And Snakes don't handle rejection well, especially not when they've dug deep to overcome their reservations. 

Bugger. 

Tracey appears just then and comes to stand with them, although she greets Granger and the ghost with a polite, "Madam Snape, Baron," and a respectful inclination of her head as she does so. As she and Theo begin quietly speaking, apparently picking up a thread from the discussion at lunch, Draco decides he probably needs to do something. 

Pulling away from his friends, who don't spare him more than a curious glance before continuing their conversation, he slowly approaches Granger and the ghost, somewhat like one might a wild Hippogriff. He has a bit of experience there. He hopes this goes better. 

He doesn't get remotely close before the Baron moves in front of her again. Draco stops, but nods to him, trying to signal that he understands. He manages not to bow, just, but a small voice in the back of his mind is screaming for him to placate the ghost. _Now_. Those may even be sympathetic phantom pains in his arm...

As he sees it, the three of them are the only ones beside Severus to really understand what the problem here is. 

But Draco's the only one who currently sees the problem that's bound _to come_. 

Ill at ease, he manages a suitably formal, "Baron, may I speak to you for a moment?" It's ruined by the fact it's depressingly squeaky, his voice leaving him in the lurch. 

Draco registers how the Baron almost seems to seek Granger's approval. At any rate he waits for her nod before coming over to join him. Apparently his friends aren't the only Slytherins who've decided they need to integrate, to _watch out for_ the witch. This is more than a little strange. 

Draco casts a Privacy Charm and then does his best to explain the situation. 

It's not that the Baron disagrees, quite the contrary, he thinks the boy is absolutely correct. But the Baron can hold a grudge. Before Malfoy can lift the Charm, he looks very pointedly towards the boy's left arm, the arm he knows has the Serpents wrapped - _tightly_ \- around it, and in his roughest whisper tells him, "I had three once, too. It placed me in the Infirmary. I wish you the best of... luck with those." It has the desired effect, sounding irreproachably polite while leaving the boy disquieted, anticipating his... unpleasant afternoon and evening, and the Baron floats back towards Madam Snape while the blond chews on that. 

It can be difficult to tell for sure with a whisper, and ultimately the Baron is a Slytherin and appearances can be deceiving, but Draco is _reasonably_ certain there was at least a hint of sarcasm in there somewhere. But he _is_ sure of one thing: having just escaped the Infirmary yesterday evening, he _won't_ end there again today, because he's also reasonably certain Madam Pomfrey means to see him dead. 

He'd prefer to do his dying in his _own_ bed, if it's all the same.  
  


The Baron has a little experience of his own with the occasionally... sub-optimal response of the rejected Slytherin. He recognises the problem clearly as well. He's just not entirely sure the witch will. Gryffindors are... different to the Snakes. 

Resolved, he wafts over close to her and tries to report what young Malfoy said. He begins by asking her to cast a Privacy Charm so he can apprise her of the situation. But she gives him an measuring look, "You're just going to tell me what he said?" The Baron nods, sort of bobbing up and down in the process, although he silently adds to himself that he'll also presumably struggle to convince her Malfoy is correct. It rarely helps to point out in advance of a conversation that one discounts the other participant's perspicacity. Almost completely in fact. At least on the given subject. 

"So we're basically playing Chinese whispers?" She accuses. He has no answer for her, not being familiar with the term. It doesn't matter; the question was largely rhetorical. She _hates_ Chinese whispers. It's a singularly stupid game. She's not _Ron_ , _she_ goes straight to the source. Possibly because she lacks many of Ron's connections, but that's _not_ the point. 

Instead she leans around the Baron and calls out to Malfoy and signals him to join them. He does so, a little warily. Once he's very close she hisses at him, "Just keep your hands where I can see them."

He blinks only once and immediately tries to reassure her, "I wouldn't have dreamt of doing otherwise. I'll leave the Privacy Charm to you then, shall I?" She's quick to accommodate him, silently flicking up a Muffliato. 

He hadn't planned on speaking to her directly, he'd happily have left that to the Baron, and now he finds himself casting about for the right thing to say. He falters, but then finally makes up his mind, "I assume from your reactions yesterday and this morning, from your presence last night when Severus..." And his voice fails him again, this time more thoroughly. He _really_ doesn't enjoy thinking about being Crucioed. Few people who have experienced it would. 

"Yes?" There's no succour to be found here. She seems eminently comfortable with the notion of his torture, and that... It's hard for him to face. She may be unsure how she feels about him and what he's experienced, but one thing she's _positive_ about is she doesn't feel _sorry_ for him. It makes many things... easier. 

"As a result, I'll assume that you haven't been Obliviated." He finishes a little more strongly, not wanting to flag in front of her. 

Knowing that _he_ actually _has been_ , at least in part, she finds a certain amusement in that statement. With a bit of a smirk, she asks innocently, "And _how_ would I know if I _had_ been?"

"Right," he agrees with the objection, swallowing. This is harder than he'd have thought. "Then let's say we have similar recollections of..." Much harder.

"The 'events' of Friday evening?" She brutally supplies with mock cheer. 

"Right," he manages again, very clearly distressed, and she finds herself beginning to enjoy that. Rather a lot. But then, she's feeling a little more relaxed as a whole anyway. Much later, she'll have reason to wonder if some of that isn't due to the Professor's liberal consumption of alcohol. But for the moment, she has no explanation for her increase in courage and decrease in certain inhibitions. She has little problem just now speaking her mind, and derives more pleasure than usual from doing so.

" _They_ ," he nods at Davis and Nott, "have no awareness at all of those... events." She doesn't answer, she lets him speak. "They've decided, given you're the..." He stalls. "As Severus is your..."

"Husband?" She asks sweetly, deliberately trying to provoke him. He just swallows again and nods. "Thanks for that, by the by," she adds. It occurs to him that he hasn't just damned Severus to a life of celibacy, and he probably should watch his back around her, too. This year keeps getting better and better. His shoulders droop noticeably. 

"So what's the problem, Malfoy?" She prods. 

"They've decided that you should be properly received by the House." 

"So? What? It's tar and feather the Mudblood day?" She sounds almost nonchalant, not particularly concerned in the least, although a good observer might note her arms are now crossed tightly over her chest. Draco's trying to puzzle out what 'tarring and feathering' is; wizards obviously used Sticking Charms when need arose and tend even onto the present day to reserve feathers for quills and duvets. 

And then the corner of her mouth quirks up and she laughs darkly, "I'd like to see them _try_." She looks at him significantly and a bit maliciously adds, "I believe _Severus_ will have a thing or two to say about that, don't you?"

"Merlin, Granger, don't be stupid." Her irritation is instant, but when he runs his fingers through his hair in frustration, he reminds her of a paler Harry for a moment, and she softens a little again; the response is practically ingrained. "You'll have people like them," he nods to Nott and Davis again, "and Gregory and Blaise, say, trying to extend an olive branch, and they won't be able to understand when you reject it."

She fails, utterly, predictably, to see why that's _her_ problem. "So _I_ should feel sorry for them? Take pity on them? Those poor ickle Snakelets? Because they might get their itty bitty feelings hurt?"

He wisely avoids addressing any of her questions, he wouldn't touch them even if Imperviused, and tries to illustrate the problem instead. "There's already been one duel, in defence of your... honour."

Ignoring the complete absurdity of _that_ , it's probably wisest, she replies a little petulantly, "I didn't ask them to." He's _quite_ well aware of that, having participated in the duel himself, but he doubts saying so will help. 

"That's not the point. The point is do you want them, _us_ fighting _for_ you or _against_ you? To me it seems you already have enough people working against you." 

Honestly, _he's_ thinking primarily of the Ravenclaws and Macmillan as he says it, which makes perfect sense as they'd only just fought, and, frankly, MacDougal's made herself hard to forget. Fuck. His hand rubs his ear automatically at the thought. He's sure there are others who will cause the Gryffindor trouble, but those four are who he has in mind. _She_ instantly thinks he means Ron and Harry, which should tell her something but doesn't really, and glares at him defensively, secretly frightened he might be right. 

She's just doesn't seem to be getting it, and there's a mulish cast to her features. Malfoy is wondering now what he ever thought he would accomplish by doing this. He's about to give up when the Baron speaks. Well, whispers. 

"Madam Snape, he has a valid point." She looks at him for a moment as though he were a traitor. He's surprised to find he doesn't... like the associated feeling. 

As she doesn't see the sense of what he's trying to say, Draco deduces her current approach to how to deal with this probably wasn't her strategy either. He regroups, "Severus will have suggested trying to behave as though nothing were amiss?" She nods, reluctantly, perfectly reasonably more than a little unwilling to take him into her confidence. 

"He had to make a... report, last night," Draco informs her, trying to explain, and suddenly she takes his meaning. She winces, and he struggles not to flinch, remaining as neutral as he can, he continues, "Word will eventually get out. _You_ have a small window of opportunity to define how almost everyone is going to behave moving forward." He sounds _so much_ like the Professor that she involuntarily finds herself paying closer attention. " _They_ don't know any better, and are giving you a chance they most assuredly won't once that word spreads."

Her flash of panic segues seamlessly to indignation. "So I should feel _grateful_ now?" 

"No! Merlin..." He doubts he'll ever get through to her. Of course, how is she to know that just this once, he's not being a completely hateful little... scrote. Yes. Well, his record presumably speaks for him, or rather, _against_ him. 

The Baron steps in, metaphorically speaking, "He's suggesting, Madam Snape, that you should take advantage of the opportunity... presented. Rebuffing them will make things worse, now, and even more so once the... rumours circulate." 

Malfoy just nods. 

Once he has an 'in', he believes he's quite alright arguing strategy. He's just not good at securing that 'in' himself. Certainly not with the witch before him. "This has nothing to do with how you should _feel_ about it, that's entirely up to you. This is only about what you _do_. Lock them into a course of action. Once they commit, most will be too proud to go back on it."

Hermione looks to the Baron who simply nods. She thinks she'll never get the Snakes, which is funny, as that's pretty much _precisely_ how Crooks behaves. Of course, Crooks might argue she doesn't get him either, were he the chatty type. 

She doesn't look convinced, so Draco tries again, "If they establish themselves - publicly - as your supporters, how would they justify ceasing that support to the rest of the school without losing face?" He addresses the Erumpent in the corridor before she can object. "Because of blood status?" He points to the badge on her uniform. " _No one_ could ever claim it was unknown. It's there for all to see.

"They _want_ to do this, they've _decided_ to do this. You just need to _let_ them. Make it easier for them." He shrugs, hoping she finally gets it. She _should_ , but then he'd have thought it was obvious from the outset. 

She sounds wary. "So your suggestion?" 

Draco looks at her a little stupidly. He's just _said_ , for Merlin's sake, hasn't he? Hell, the Baron's just said as well, too. He shakes his head in frustration again. 

"Concretely?" she amends. 

A little impatiently he expands on it, "Theo offered you food. You should take him up on it. Just _take_ the pastie from him. For appearances sake. _How hard_ is that?"

She actually laughs at that. "You don't honestly expect me to eat something you people provided?"

Draco practically groans. The hand on his forehead can't seem to decide between running his fingers through his hair again and cradling his head against the headache that seems to be coming on. The bloody Bloody Baron may be smirking, he has something of a soft spot for intelligent witches. 

Draco's not quite of his opinion about her at the moment. "Give it some thought, Granger, would you?" He half snarls. "Theo stood up for you Friday, when he had to go up against all his friends to do so. He argued - with all of us - to leave you alone. He's hardly likely to turn around and try to do you harm _now_. _What_ would be the _point_?" 

"Unless he were trying to prove himself to you," the Baron supplies, not actually believing it, but feeling someone should protect the witch's interests. 

"Well, he's _not_ , because he doesn't even _remember_ he has something to _prove_ ," Malfoy sounds frustrated. He turns back to Hermione, "But no, I don't actually expect you to _eat_ it. Merlin knows, you've already demonstrated you know how to _Vanish_ food." She pinks, slightly, at that, but only slightly. "It's about appearances. And not turning people away who might be potential allies."

She mulls it over, her lips thinning as she does so. Finally she answers, "You didn't have lunch?" He shakes his head, but he fails to see the relevancy of her line of thought. Unless this is about taking _both_ pasties and enjoying their Vanishing even _more_... Fine. He's not going to get his hopes up again. 

"Well, I'm not going to waste more food by taking yours from you, that's just... inconsiderate." It's one thing not to offer him _hers_ , it's another altogether to take _his_. 

Draco can't help it, he laughs. He quickly apologises again, but... "No, of course not, you wouldn't want to be _inconsiderate_." She's more than a little absurd, and his nerves are raw. To be fair, the Baron finds her more than passing amusing as well.

She just quirks an eyebrow at Malfoy and asks, "So your great plan is I go over there," her head jerks towards Nott, "take the food from an actually hungry person," she bobs it back towards him, "and then stand here pretending to eat it like some oversized squirrel, _om nom nom_ , before Vanishing it? _That's_ your grand scheme?" When she puts it like that... But both Malfoy and the Baron try to silently convey their encouragement, despite similarly quizzical looks. She finds _them_ amusing as well. 

So much so, _she_ now laughs. "Sounds like a sad bit of panto to me. 

"Alright."

And with that she summarily turns and walks off towards Theo and Tracey, taking both the Baron and Draco by surprise. They hasten to follow in her wake. "Nott, hey, thanks for the offer," she manages quite warmly, indicating the pasties he's still holding. 

Both Draco and the Baron are surprised at the seeming sincerity of it. Frankly, _both_ were certain she hadn't got it in her. They're probably correct, but something Malfoy had said had clicked for her, though.  
  


She doesn't usually think of Nott as an individual, he's simply a member of his House. After six years of sitting with him in most of her classes, she still fails to see the _person_. But when she now stops to consider him, she has to admit he isn't the most... dominant personality in his year. In fact, he's sort of their Neville. That is if Neville had something like Hermione's marks. 

Honestly? Nott's probably second to last in the boys' pecking order and only barely ahead of Goyle. That's if he isn't dead last; it's hard to tell from the outside, and she isn't sure how academic success is measured in their House against Quidditch prowess. She figures - somewhat incorrectly - that intelligence is probably not much more highly valued there than in her own House... 

And now she's trying to resolve how she felt she hadn't owed him any thanks for his attempted defence of her Friday. It's not like she could actually have thanked him as such post-Obliviation, that's not the issue, but she hadn't even _meant_ to. Somehow it's because she felt it was the _right_ thing for him to have done, the _only_ thing for him to have done... She'd been so busy lumping them all together... She came out of it feeling she'd owed him no gratitude... 

And yet she feels _very_ grateful towards both the Professor and the Baron. She's wondering if their _success_ made the difference, which makes her feel uncomfortable, because surely that _shouldn't_ be what counts. Not to _her_. Not as she sees herself. 

She's also wondering if Nott's arguing with his friends to just leave her be hadn't made the crucial difference, enabling enough time to pass for the Professor to swoop in and save her before... Well, before matters got any worse. 

She _thinks_ part of the problem is she's _sure_ the Professor had done all he could for her. In fact, she suspects he's done more than she knows, for that matter. It's _easy_ to be grateful to him. To see the dashing hero in the swishing black cloak... _That_ was _incredibly_ easy. 

It's harder to see a hero in her shy and lanky classmate, no matter how hard she squints.  
  


As for the _Baron_ , she's not sure if he could or should have done something differently, particularly given how the Headmaster seems to want this handled, and she's come to understand that ghosts aren't entirely... free. She feels... confident that he had done... well for her. That politics and hidden agendas probably kept him from acting otherwise. And that's where things get... tricky. 

Because had the Professor returned from the Manor even a little later... Well, what would the Baron have done then? What _should_ he have done then? He probably would have fetched the Headmaster, and she finds herself wondering how safe she would have been if he had. 

Summoning Professor McGonagall, Hermione is sure, _would_ have kept her safe; her Head would have brought help. Hermione's begun to suspect she wouldn't have been informed. So if she makes excuses for the Baron within the constraints of his role... 

She's wondering why she's so hard on Nott?  
  


He hadn't Stupefied her and tied her to the chair. He hadn't brought the Potion or given it to her. He hadn't laid a finger or Spell on her. He hadn't even brought the blood or dumped it on her. Technically _that_ seems to have been a joint effort of the Professor's and Malfoy's, she thinks a little ruefully. But an honest assessment would be that it was Malfoy's plan and he would have carried that through if left to his own devices. 

Nott, well... _Nott_ had looked shocked when he saw her there, and then stood there arguing with the others that enough was enough and they should simply leave. Perhaps Disillusion themselves and tell a portrait to send for her Head of House so she'd find her there. But whatever else, that things had gone _far enough_.

Everyone knows his father is one of the inner circle. _Has been_ since _Riddle's school days_ , for goodness' sake. The man had spent the last year in Azkaban, in no small part thanks to her and her friends, and yet _Nott_ \- Theo - had tried to stand up for her Friday, apparently against all of his friends, and certainly in front of those who were best connected to the Death Eaters in their school. Malfoy may actually be right... That took... That took quite some nerve. 

Which now leaves her fairly unsure how she feels about him. 

She'll need to give that some thought.  
  


But for the time being, there are pasties on offer. 

She takes one from Nott's hand, now once again automatically extended towards her, offering her her choice of his bounty, and Hermione could swear she hears Malfoy sigh in resignation behind her. "Malfoy's right. I just had something," she tells Nott, passing the pastie back to Malfoy. He looks thoroughly nonplussed, then beams like a small boy gifted his first broom before falling upon it ravenously. She thinks the Baron may have chuckled, and she imagines she could learn to enjoy screwing with Malfoy. Everyone needs a hobby. 

She can't help thinking of Ron as she watches the relief play over Malfoy's face as he gets something between his gums after all. Just another stomach-driven, Quidditch-obsessed pure-blood... To be fair, the Slytherin hadn't had much breakfast thanks to the Poste Serpentes, and he already knows he won't have any dinner for the very same reason. He's also always cared more about his academics than Ron ever will, and with all the other things going on in his life, he's just going through the motions on the pitch these days. But none of that's very obvious from the outside. Nott isn't the only one she doesn't really see, but then why would she?  
  


Hermione's almost subtle as she talks with the Slytherins, unless one is aware of recent events that is. But as the other two _aren't_ , they _don't_ notice anything particularly strange about her behaviour. Soon she's manoeuvred herself between Nott and Davis with her back to the wall, correctly deeming neither of them threats, and keeping Malfoy clearly in sight. He cooperates, making it easy for her. She stands there chatting with the three Snakes about their assignment for class, and it's not long before Daphne Greengrass comes to join them. 

"Hi, Hermione," she greets her, apparently having decided she's one of 'them' now, and then proceeds to ask her for some detail about the Spell she'd mentioned this morning in Transfiguration, not that Hermione can provide much more information. 

Which is where they are and what they're doing when Hannah Abbott, the Ravenclaws and Professor Vector arrive, all of whom are a little surprised to see her standing with the four Slytherins and their House ghost. It has a way, however, of keeping the Ravenclaws from making any unwelcome comments. Truthfully, Hermione's had enough of those for today.  
  


As they prepare to begin class, Professor Vector asks if anyone knows if Mr. Macmillan will be joining them. 

Theo, still enamoured of being ever so helpful, is happy to inform her, "I believe he's in the Infirmary, Professor." 

He may have neglected to say _he's_ the one who put the Head Boy there.  
  


Hannah, however, is more than happy to correct that oversight, "Yeah? And whose fault is _that_?"

* * *

  


Arithmancy is a small class and a difficult one. It attracts many of the best students, certainly those more willing to learn at the very real risk of a lower cumulative average, which has a way of simplifying classroom discipline. It doesn't hurt that there's nothing dangerous in the class beyond the wand wielding students. Arithmancy is not even prone to the occasional misfire one might expect from Charms or Transfiguration. 

Consequently, Professor Vector has little trouble getting the students to settle down, and only has to dock Hannah five points when she kicks up a fuss with Nott before the rest fall in line. 

Hermione enjoys the subject as a whole, she always has, but just at the moment, she's appreciating it even more as another hour without Harry and Ron. She's not looking forward to DADA next period, because these days she _never_ does - Professor Taylor, Holy Cricket - and, well... Harry and Ron, obviously. When Professor Vector's Tempus chimes, she somewhat reluctantly gathers her things. 

As Daphne follows Tracey into the corridor, she turns back to half ask, "We'll see you in Herbology, Hermione?" It's a little silly, because _yes_ , naturally she will, just as she has done for yonks, barring some catastrophe or a basilisk, say. But it's probably typical of Daphne, she's the silliest by far in the course, and she's clearly trying to be nice. That's perhaps her more _defining_ characteristic, but people have a way of missing that. 

A little less certainly than her words suggest, Hermione replies, "Sure... Daphne, I'll see you both then." Still, she manages a smile and her tone is friendly enough. Malfoy gives her a very inconspicuous nod of approval as Nott joins the little group. 

Hermione's still trying to get used to the new paradigm. It's odd. Even odder, it strikes Hermione, is the fact _Daphne_ seems to adjust to the change most easily of the five individuals affected by it and now gathered in the hallway. In every way that matters, Hermione would have said the other four significantly outperform Greengrass. And yet... It's probably another indication that there are skill sets Hermione not only undervalues, but tends to not even recognise. Unfortunately, she misses that yet again. 

Tracey takes her leave with a somewhat formal, "Madam Snape," and a smile at the... boys who now seem to be falling in at Hermione's side as the two Slytherin girls turn down a different corridor. Which is when the... oddness of it all really sinks in. 

Of the ten students in Arithmancy, only five are in DADA. Defence is taken by far more Gryffindors and Slytherins, for obvious reasons, than Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws. But because those Badgers and Eagles are _all_ members of the DA, or _were_ as was, 'they' outnumber the Snakes two to one. 

Usually on the trip from the Arithmancy classroom to the DADA room, Hermione sticks to Ernie and Hannah, and they let Malfoy and Nott go a little ahead of or behind them. They tend to feel smugly confident either way while doing so, because it's three of 'us' against two of 'them'. 

But _today_ she finds herself walking with Nott and Malfoy, with Hannah awkwardly trailing much further behind. Having just argued with Nott, Hannah's very reluctant to get anywhere near the three of them and tries to keep her distance. 

Malfoy, Hermione notices, makes an effort to keep Nott between them and himself a little bit ahead of her where she can clearly see him, but he really hasn't got the space to react if she pulled something. That probably takes guts, because she can feel her fingers itching occasionally to just... Hex the stuffing out of him. 

Draco would never admit it, but those fine hairs on the back of his neck seem to sense that about her. He much preferred their response to MacDougal. Merlin. Fuck. 

It seems... disloyal, Hermione can't help thinking, to leave Hannah twisting there on her own. Feeling she has an opportunity to bridge the divide here, she decides to do just that. She might have felt differently were she aware of the details that led to Ernie being Hexed by Nott. The very ones that Hannah had seemed to feel inclined to defend. Ernie and Terry had been rather... crude, and they got no less than they deserved. 

"Would you two mind waiting just a moment?" She asks the Snakes. "Please?" She adds, catching herself, but doesn't pause for their reply. She turns back instead and with a beckoning wave calls, "Hey, Hannah, come on and join us." 

Actually, it's a decent test of the boys' commitment to change their behaviour. Despite his fondness for his reimagined self, even Theo is uneasy with the thought of Abbott there beside them. In a duel, a little space to react is _crucial_. And in this corridor, there isn't much cover. 

But the three stand there waiting for her to catch up, and Hannah can't think of a good way out of this. They all have the same destination after all. Deciding to trust Hermione, Hannah closes the distance between them. It leaves her feeling a bit guilty about the things Ernie had told her when she visited him in the Infirmary before class. He hadn't exactly been... kind. 

They walk in awkward silence a little ways, obviously nervous with one another. Hannah to Hermione's left, the boys to her right. Everyone trying to keep the others in sight... Hermione is beginning to think she made a mistake, Draco _certainly_ is of that opinion, when Theo breaks the silence. 

"Daphne was really interested in that healers' Charm you mentioned. Now she may have Fwoopers on the brain..." Draco groans. He can't believe Theo would point that out. To _outsiders_. On the other hand, it's not like the others aren't well aware of it. Pretty much everyone in that class is. "But she checked out a tome on healers' Spells from the library before lunch..." 

Hannah mumbles, "I thought she was in a terrible hurry to leave Care of Magical Creatures..."

Theo just glances at her and proceeds, "And she discovered it's not a Charm with a modifier after all. It appears you were right, Madam Snape, it's an example of dynamic Transfiguration."

Hannah blinks at the 'Madam Snape', and Draco just groans, "Only Daphne would use a book on _Healing_ to research how to _write notes_..." 

It says something about Daphne that all four of them not only _can_ but _do_ picture her using it to write notes covered with smiley faces. Some of their thoughts include hearts and butterflies in that scenario. And it says something about Theo and Hermione that they then both proceed to wonder how one would dictate a pictogram in a Charm. 

Hannah finds herself unexpectedly defending the girl. It probably helps that she's used to seeing Malfoy as the opposition. "No, it was a _good_ idea. I... When I visited Ernie after lunch," she purposely doesn't mention _where_ , and she and Nott both avoid eye contact, but the next statement renders that omission largely pointless. "I asked Madam Pomfrey about that. Greengrass is right. The Spell is unmodified and dynamic."

Hermione's "Oh, did she teach you the Charm?" coincides with Theo's "Did you learn the Spell?" He gives Hermione a shy smile and quips, "Great minds?" If it had been less of a question, sounded less _thoroughly_ uncertain, he might be more of a player, but then the witches present would probably think a good deal less of him. Hannah thaws a little further. Theo explains, "Daphne's tome _mentioned_ the Spell. It doesn't detail how to perform it. In fact, a lot of things aren't really explained. It's practically a volume of teasers."

"That's probably because many Healing Spells are restricted to the use of those who've taken some variation of the Healers' Vows," Hermione explains, putting Madam Pomfrey's recent tutelage to use, swotty thing that she is. It rolls off of her tongue so naturally, she makes it sound like she was born with the knowledge. "But it's still useful to understand, to learn what _could_ be done, even if you yourself aren't capable of doing it. It's just learning theory."

Theo gives her an approving look. Malfoy rolls his eyes. Fortunately, he's still a little ahead of them, and it's not quite as noticeable as it otherwise would have been. Still, Hermione doesn't miss it because she's keeping a close eye on him. 

"So if we can't Transfigure something into a Fwooper, say, without removing it's voice at the outset..." Hannah begins. 

"Not unless you're using a completely different Spell," Malfoy objects. "The voice is part and parcel of the Fwooper," Hermione could swear she hears his teeth grating at the mention of the bird, it makes her want to talk about it more often - _Fwooper Fwooper Fwooper_ , "anything else, and it's not the same creature, so it wouldn't be the same Spell."

"But it's not _really_ a Fwooper," Hannah feels the need to object right back.

" _Of course not_ ," Malfoy sounds exasperated. Theo gives him a subtle nudge with his elbow to remind him to mind his manners. In a slightly more moderate tone, he continues, "Gamp's laws prove that. But it has all the characteristics of a Fwooper," he really can't seem to say it without gnashing his teeth, "which means you still have the issue of his maddening birdcall."

Hermione starts, considering that this is the first time _someone else_ has mentioned Gamp's laws in conversation in her presence. She waits for the derision, the ridicule that invariably seems to come whenever _she_ brings them up. 

It doesn't happen. 

Instead the other three just carry on their discussion of Transfiguration, apparently noticing nothing out of the ordinary. 

Only then does it dawn on her that she's having a conversation, an actual _conversation_ , with people that _doesn't_ seem to revolve around _Quidditch_. And one of them's a _team captain_ , too. She begins to smile and rejoins the conversation with gusto. It wins her a smile in return from Nott. 

By the time they reach DADA, the four are deep in their discussion, presenting a very strange picture to the others already waiting in Professor Taylor's class.  
  


Naturally, that's when they remember their roles, and for the most part a little grudgingly, they put an end to their Transfiguration musings, take their seats and wait to be subjected to another worthless hour of Taylor's mandated meditation. 

Merlin help them.  
  


Even Snape's biggest detractors are now willing to admit, last year they had indisputably learnt more.

* * *

  


Severus sits there on the floor, it's all perfectly dignified, he's _positive_ , watching the Kneazle play with the ball of yarn he'd Transfigured for him yesterday. He thinks the feline might be pandering to him, but frankly is too cabbaged to care. And honestly, it's about time someone pandered to him. Isn't it? 

The Kneazle meows in agreement. Probably. It doesn't seem to be disagreement. 

No, disagreement probably involves more of those claws the creature is extending to snag the wool. 

Merlin, are those some claws. 

He watches him a while longer, the two sitting there in companionable silence, nothing but the sound of the intermittent pounce when the yarn ball rolls too far away to comfortably reach - although Severus suspects some of the pounces were gratuitous - until a thought occurs to him. 

"Would you care to whet your claws occasionally on a portrait? Every now and again? All in the name of propriety, of course."

The Sirius not dog had certainly demonstrated a thing or two about the efficacy of claws on portraits, but Crooks has never had the opportunity to try it for himself. The half-Kneazle is instantly all ears. 

The 'mrawr' Severus gets in response sounds interested, he's sure of it. 

This keeps up, they'll get along just famously.

* * *

  


Ron occasionally has some pretty good ideas. One such idea had been to make use of his free period to get himself out of his far too tight pants and also into a uniform that wasn't quite as snug and preferably didn't scratch. As plans go, it wasn't bad, and he'd sent Harry off with Seamus and a couple of the others to take a few swings around the pitch and get in just a little extra practice time. 

So far so good. 

Unfortunately, he hadn't quite figured on Peeves stubbornly lying in wait for him. 

Ron still hasn't quite made the connection between this and his taking the stale bread from this morning, paying little attention to the things Peeves keeps shouting, as many do. Colin, more than passing familiar with 'Hogwarts: a History', will happily fill Ron in when he complains - vociferously - about the attacks this evening. It can't be said often enough, there are advantages to reading. 

Things being as they are, Ron spends far too much of the hour running from the Poltergeist and becoming sweatier and itchier. Starch has a way of doing that. When he finally makes it back to the tower and changes his clothing, he neglects to shower, teenage wizards not being substantially different to their Muggle counterparts, or apply any sort of Cleansing Charm for that matter, and he'll be puzzled to find he still itches despite the fresh clothes. In his defence, the time was perhaps a little tight for showering, but there's no excuse for not performing a Charm beyond ignorance. 

Of course, there's little excuse for _that_.  
  


The beginning of the next period, the ginger is sourly slouched in his seat in the DADA classroom, still itchy and, as far as his friends are concerned, unaccountably more... ripe than those of them who'd legitimately worked up a sweat getting in a little Quidditch practice. They're really not sure how he does it. Harry's considering gifting him a Muggle deodorant; clearly his Charms aren't working. 

Unsurprisingly, Ron's grumpy and not particularly happy to see Hermione. He's even _less_ happy to see her entering the room discussing something he hadn't really understood the point of from this morning's Transfiguration class with a couple of _Snakes_. They all seem so cozy, so _chummy_ , so terribly, terribly... _bright_. Just a bunch of clever dicks, smarming about her, trying to prove how frightfully _smart_ they all are... His lip curls in a reflexive sneer at the thought. 

Productively, so very, he's sublimated that displeasure and begun whinging about the lesson. 

It's not that everyone else doesn't agree with him... Well, except maybe Lav and Parvati; they've come to enjoy the regular chance to clear their inner sight and focus on themselves. Professor Trelawney would _totally_ approve. In one transcendental moment during meditation a week ago, Lav had gone so far as to begin to envision her inner eye with a shimmery eyeshadow and a Lash-lengthening Charm. She was quite pleased with that. 

Ron and Harry are happy to point out that's hardly the point to a _Defence_ class, but Lav's killing argument, "Maybe, but Professor Taylor is _way fit_," has a way of ending the discussion. Parvati just enjoys watching it. Ron's ears and neck go red whenever Lav does that. 

So today once again finds Ron typically unhappy with the coursework, and thanks to the events of the past day or so in the sort of mood that prompts him to give voice to those thoughts. Most, as mentioned, agree in principle, and yet they still almost universally wish just he'd shut up about it. Crabbe and Alberta Runcorn may just be leaning back waiting for the inevitable point loss. 

Sure enough, Taylor's Detection Charm alerts him to the mutterings, he interrupts class and a perfectly useless discussion ensues. By and large, they'd preferred the silence. It wasn't any more productive, but it _had_ been more pleasant. 

But while Ron muppets about with Taylor, Neville takes advantage of the distraction. It's the first class he's had with Hermione since... well since yesterday's... announcement, and, for all too obvious reasons, it's not like he's run into her in the Common Room. 

Right. 

So he leans over and quietly asks, "Hermione? Is everything... you know, _alright_?"

Everything is very definitely _not_ alright, but she's reasonably certain that isn't what he means. Naturally, she's not as right about that as she thinks. He _would_ be interested in her problems, but she's correct that it wasn't what he had in mind when he asked. She glares over at the table where Ron and Harry are sitting and a little distractedly answers, "How do you mean, Neville?"

Frankly, Neville can't imagine the question needs to be _explained_ , but, sure, why not... He says a silent prayer that she doesn't share this conversation with her... bondmate and tries again, "The Professor... He's, um, treating you alright then?" The assumption being if he weren't, then Neville wouldn't have needed to expand on his query. Neville may want for confidence, but he's far from dim. 

"Neville!" She sounds scandalised, the depth of which is all the more impressive given they're whispering. "It's not like a bonding requires... _intimacies_." That last is barely even a hiss, but it's sufficient to drain every last bit of colour from his face, which is fine, as _her_ face has all the more. There's probably some kind of law about that, conservation of colour or something. 

But, Merlin! Of course not! Only he can't even find words for a reply. Still, his shock speaks louder than any words would have. "Oh, I'm sorry, Neville. I guess I've caught a little too much speculation on that front. I assumed... Well, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have." 

It takes him a moment to regain his powers of speech. Well, _whispering_ anyway... "Gods, Hermione. _No, of course not_. I _do_ know what a bond is after all." He's quiet for a bit, but Taylor's lecturing Ron seems to be winding down and he won't have much time left, "But you did move into his quarters, I gather. A Protection Vow, I assume?"

She nods. 

"Have things gotten so dangerous then?" He asks her.

Hermione weighs her response, "The Headmaster seems to think so."

Neville thought he'd picked up on something, some undercurrent... And Hermione _had_ been in the Infirmary all weekend. After the fact, when he'd worried maybe something _had_ happened to her, he'd felt bad about not visiting her. But in advance he'd worried it would seem a presumption if he _had_. That it wouldn't have been... welcome. She has Harry and Ron, after all. And he's just... Well, himself. It's really not his place... 

But now...

So needing to make sure, to _know_ how his friend is, he checks again more explicitly, "But _you're_ alright? You _haven't_ been harmed?"

"Aside from some very... _unfortunate_ responses to the news of the bonding, yes. I'm absolutely fine." It's a lie. Even she knows it. But it would be too hard to explain why she isn't fine, some of it she can't even mention if she wanted, not that she's sure she would if she could, and this isn't the time or place for it at any rate. But the lie comes much easier with the Calming in her blood, and that weird... _whatever it is_ that she can feel from the Professor across their bond. As she says it 'I'm absolutely fine'... Hell, it almost feels... _true_. 

"And living with 'him'... in the dungeons... It's not so bad? He _is_ treating you alright?" Hermione looks at Neville and imagines she can just see the hint of a knight errant, prepared to take up arms if the Professor were not. She pictures him rushing forward, shield on his arm and sword in hand... And then she pictures him trembling over the remains of his cauldron in any given week during the five years they took Potions together. So probably not. Still, it was frightfully sweet of Neville. Her affectionate smile almost tells him so. 

"No, he's been a perfect gentleman." She thinks of him carrying her books. And then she thinks of him carrying _her_ and blushes in a way that's making Neville uncomfortable. There are _reasons_ the Slytherins work to get over that reflex. "Quite civil, in fact. Thanks for asking."

Neville swallows and chooses to concentrate on the word 'civil' - although he has great difficulty imagining Professor Snape _being_ civil, but still, 'civil' seems... safe - as Professor Taylor redirects everyone's attention to the great nothing that comprises their lesson.

* * *

  


Blaise and Pansy use the lapse in Taylor's attention to tell their friends about Professor Sapworthy's Prophecy in Xylomancy. 

When Taylor starts haranguing Weasel, and Weasel starts mouthing back - Merlin is he an idiot, all Slytherins agree - Blaise shifts slightly in his seat, twitching a brow and catching Draco's eye. Draco takes the hint and casts the Privacy Charm for their group, something unusual enough that he's confident that chump Taylor would neither know how to detect nor break it. It's certainly better than that buzzy thing Granger, Snape, whatever had used. Gryffindors. Merlin. 

Theo, overly fond of belts and braces, casts his very own Notice-Me-Nott on top of Draco's Charm, just to be sure. He has no desire to get the same dressing down Weasel's having. Or to lose eight times as many points were the lot of them caught. Or more, probably, because they're Slytherins. It usually seems to work out that way. 

This is the second Prophecy in days, which was causing some degree of excitement. Yesterday's had quite obviously come to pass were one to go by the Weasel's never-ending snit, which all have cheerfully noted - quite possibly the _only_ upside to Professor Snape's bonding - and somehow that makes everyone more inclined to credit Seers with powers they hadn't previously attributed to them. That belief shouldn't have transitive properties. Just because Professor Trelawney had gotten something right, it by no means heralds Professor Sapworthy's success with _her_ vision...

But. 

The topic of _this_ Prophecy seems to hit far closer to home, and they're able to say with perfect confidence that - within a couple of hours - it _should_ come true. 

" _Three little snakes bringing the biggest snake of them all to his knees..._ " 

Pansy gives Draco a truly apologetic look as Blaise tells them all about it, just a touch too enthusiastically. He only interjects a, "Sorry, mate," midway through, feeling rather less guilty as he's got a Serpent of his own. Not that it can hold a candle to _three_ , but still... And it's not like he can help it. But it probably doesn't dent his eagerness to relate the story any that Professor Sapworthy hadn't said something about a 'handsome young Nubian god being brought to _his_ knees'... No, that undoubtedly makes it easier. 

Draco's hand goes to his arm as he hears it, fingers subconsciously running over his sleeve and feeling the ridges beneath. 

Theo groans for him. And then out of a mix of caution and suspicion asks, "Do you think she saw them arrive?"

Vince is sure, "She was a Ravenclaw. Even if she did, she wouldn't know what they are." Not everyone is as convinced about that. One needn't know the details to understand the _nature_ of the Serpents. But it doesn't seem worth arguing, as the point can't be won - it can't be proven. 

And then Alberta raises a valid objection, "Sapworthy wasn't at breakfast to see it."

Theo's caution marries well with his powers of deductive reasoning. "The incident with Trelawney this morning?" He prompts Draco.

Vince helpfully jogs everyone's memories, "Yeah, when she knocked you on your arse..."

"Ear," Pansy equally helpfully corrects. "Language." She _is_ a Prefect after all.

Theo ignores them both, "You don't suppose she was checking to see how many you'd received?"

Pansy is too invested in believing in the truth of prophecies, and immediately objects, "Even if she had, it was Professor _Sapworthy's_ Prophecy, not Professor Trelawney's."

"Mmmh," Draco appears to agree, she begins to smile at him, but really should know better, "because Seers don't possess the power of speech..."

Vince snorts his amusement while Pansy gives Draco her most put upon look. But he smirks back a bit rakishly and she softens. They've known each other too long and too well for her to be mad. 

"Taylor's done with the Weasel," Gregory alerts them with a jerk of his head to the ginger. "We should get back to..."

"Work?" Blaise mocks with huff of derision for the material. A bunch of the others laugh. 

"Faces front everyone..." Theo tells them.

"Faces _blank_ everyone," Millicent jokes. 

"Not helping, Millie," Theo informs her. "I'm dropping the Notice-Me-Nott in three, two..."

Draco lifts his Charm in the moment before Theo lifts his and before Taylor looks, all of them are quietly facing front and suitably slack-jawed. Merlin, is this class ever the worst...

* * *

  


Harry once again demonstrates some sense and pulls Ron out of class as soon as it's done. There's quite a trek ahead of them to the greenhouses, and he means to minimise the fighting between Ron and Hermione. If things keep up, he's worried they'll do irreparable damage to their friendship, missing the fact both boys probably already have. How _badly_ they've done so at this point depends entirely on her capacity to forgive. It's a spot of luck that it's one of her strengths. 

Lavender, Parvati and Neville aren't as quick to make their escapes, but are fortunately far less mercurial. 

Justin Finch-Fletchley and Susan Bones are almost as fast as Harry, and scoop up Hannah, hurrying her from the room. One might think they're intent on bodily saving her from the Snakes by the singlemindedness with which they do so. That would probably be correct. As both of them had used their free period before DADA to visit with Ernie in the Infirmary - and wasn't he a sight? - they really can't understand how Hannah could have just been chatting idly with Nott only a couple of hours after the Snake had hexed their friend. 

Hannah tries to explain what she'd been doing with the Slytherins earlier, keeping her thoughts about Ernie's part in the duel with the Slytherins to herself. Justin, at least, can follow a little, as he's in Transfiguration as well, but that's not to say he'd seen the point of their line of thought any more than Ron had. Still, even if he and Susan can accept there may have been a purpose for the discussion, they aren't convinced it's... _seemly_. 

Hannah can't really see any sense in arguing with her friends about it; fundamentally, she's not entirely convinced of the propriety of it herself. 

A little unfortunately, in an effort to take their attention off of her, she tells them about the weird conglomeration of Slytherins, their House ghost and Hermione stood before the Arithmancy classroom. It's such a strange image, that it immediately fuels their fantasies, effectively serving it's intended purpose, although perhaps not quite as Hannah had originally intended.  
  


Hermione sees a gap in the people filing from the room and takes it, knowing it's a long walk to Herbology and a little unsure how best to go about it. Going by everyone's expressions when she'd entered DADA talking with Nott and Malfoy... 

She believed Malfoy and the Baron that she should try to get the Snakes onside, but she can't see how to do that without alienating everyone else. She may be missing just how much the others _aren't_ exactly on her side at the moment as it is. 

But she isn't sure how she should go about this without making things worse.

It shouldn't have to be her lookout, it really shouldn't, but as she's the one who will have to live with the problems this causes... Well it simply _is_. She wishes she could ask the Professor what to do.  
  


Taylor gives Madam Snape's hair a broad smirk as she dashes past, his eyes lingering just a fleeting moment too long on her backside, and shakes his head thinking about Severus. The Potions Master is clearly a dark horse. Lavender happens to catch the look, and can't help wondering what it is with Hermione and the fit teachers. 

"Longbottom," Taylor hails the boy, delaying his departure, "I noticed you were a little inattentive earlier. Having problems with your concentration?"

On the contrary, the issue isn't an _inability_ to concentrate _at all_. Perhaps it's more a question of 'on what', for at just the moment, the tall Gryffindor is in fact still busy concentrating _fiercely_. On the word ' _civil_ '.  
  


Parvati and Lavender descend on Hermione. 

"So I hear you broke Snape," Lavender starts in. There may be a little jealousy in play. There frequently is. It's not that either of them are jealous about _Snape_ , gods no, but Hermione always seems to be at the centre of all the attention, 'brightest witch of her age' and all that rot, heartbreaker of the Tri-Wiz, and it's... A little frustrating is what it is. Never mind hard to _fathom_. 

Hermione isn't up for this, not for all the Calming in the world. She turns to her ex-roommates, and a little injudiciously answers, "Oh yes. So much so I landed poor _Severus_ in the Infirmary."

That actually stops the girls cold. Hermione had thought it might. Parvati might even be gawping. 

Hermione turns to proceed on her way to Herbology, but the girls shake it off and now naturally want to know more. That was completely predictable really. Now why they should think she'd be willing to share details with _them_ is anyone's guess, but probably boils down to all three being Gryffindors. The two girls _didn't_ think about _why_ Hermione _would_ , and Hermione for her part also doesn't always stop to consider if she _should_. Which helps explain how she's gotten around her Loyalty Vow as often as she has today. 

Lavender is just winding up for another go when the Slytherins catch up to them. 

Hermione might have felt more comfortable were they not three of the five boys from Friday.  
  


Of the eight Snakes in DADA, only three are in Herbology, and precisely those three now descend on the small group of Gryffindors. 

Given there are eleven students from _other_ Houses in DADA that are also enrolled in Herbology... Well, the numbers are... unfortunate, but one can't always pick and choose. A few of the other Slytherins had offered to provide an escort to help even out the nose count, but Draco had done a quick tally and declined. Particularly given some of the volatile personalities, and isn't it a sad state of affairs when _he's_ stuck being the reasonable one. He's decided chances are good they'll make it to the castle's doors, where presumably Daphne and Tracey will be waiting, without needing reinforcements. It helps that he's reasonably sure the Baron will appear if needed. 

The Hufflepuffs, well those not in the Infirmary obviously, have gone ahead, as have Snotter and Weasel. Granger may be neutral, and possibly even on their side if they do things properly. That only left the Patils, Brown and Wrongbottom. It's agreed, perhaps a little highhandedly, if Draco, Theo and Gregory can't manage them, they deserve whatever they have coming to them. 

Brown's mouth is hanging open foolishly when Gregory simply insinuates himself at Granger's, Madam Snape's that is, side. He's a born Beater, and while he no longer towers over everyone quite as much as he had in his early years, his mass has turned to solid muscle. As such, he quite _naturally_ just _muscles_ the slight blonde out of the way, silently taking up position beside the Head's wife.

For all the rudeness of the little shove he'd effectively given Lav, he then turns to Hermione and almost shyly greets her, "Good afternoon, Madam Snape." It's incongruous, and Lav is now gawping even more than Parvati had. She looks far too much like a Plimpie, 'freshwater' should go without saying. 

Nott falls in at Hermione's other side, and Malfoy again remains careful to keep himself visible and Nott as a cushion between them. It's not badly considered, really, as it leaves the two most neutral Snakes from Friday's... Yes. Well. _That_. The two least offensive are flanking her. It's a little surreal. 

Malfoy turns to the others, Hermione can't believe she's somehow now part of _that_ group, and says, "We should get moving, we don't want to be late for class." Of course what he really means is he's spotted the Ravenclaw Patil and Wrongbottom catching up to them. 

They make the doors just as Lavender begins to sputter her indignation. She really lacks perspective sometimes, when one considers the individuals Hexed just in the past twenty-four hours alone and how _that_ must have hurt, but she's convinced Goyle's... elbowing? It wasn't even that. _Whatever_ it was was an indignity too far. 

That just sets Hermione's blood boiling, because she's sure Lav doesn't know the meaning of the word. She may just start keeping a list of people to gift dictionaries and thesauri to. Not that she can afford them, but a bit of facetiousness is good for the soul. She could always Geminio them, she snorts with amusement at the thought, because that _really_ doesn't work all that well on books, as she well knows. But perhaps on Muggle books...  
  


Brown's begun shouting after them as Tracey and Daphne fall into formation. For girls not particularly fond of Quidditch they couldn't have done it better. Well, except for Daphne's cheery, "Hi, Hermione," and small wave, which detracts somewhat from the military precision of their movements. (Draco just shakes his head.) Theo and Gregory drop back to take up the rear, ensuring Brown and her cronies don't get any dumb ideas. And Malfoy continues to keep himself visible and in the lead. 

Just as well, because that's when Lav's shouting attracts the attention of the three Hufflepuffs ahead of them. Justin turns around, recognising the voice of a fellow DA member, spots Lav shouting after the knot of Snakes and hollers ahead for Harry. "Hey, Potter!"  
  


All five Snakes palm their wands as one, but keep walking. Hermione, a little confused where she stands, finds herself following suit.

  



	75. 11 11o Tuesday - Unexpected Champions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hermione, Neville, Professor Filius Flitwick, Hafsa Devi, Professor Pomona Sprout, Severus, Crooks, Draco, Morag MacDougal, the Bloody Baron, Rita Skeeter, Editor-in-Chief of the Daily Prophet Barnabas Cuffe, Maude, Theo Nott, Tracey Davis, Daphne Greengrass, Gregory Goyle, Harry, Ron, Hannah Abbott, Lavender, Parvati, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Susan Bones, Poppy_

"How many?" Tracey calmly asks the boys. They never break step. 

Theo answers a little optimistically, "Five, maybe six," with a quick glance at Madam Snape, "to nine of _them_. Worst case."

Tracey taps her left forearm, the spot the Serpents are wound around Draco's and Gregory's arms. "Because we're feeling _lucky_ today?"

Draco snorts, "That's only if the others from Herbology don't catch on. In which case..." He shrugs. He needn't say more; they all know the rest. In which case they're _screwed_. 

Daphne gives Hermione a friendly smile and says, "But if you're _with_ us, then it would only be three to one." 

Hermione wonders, not for the first time, and _certainly_ not for the _last_ , if the students wouldn't be better served with some basic _maths_ courses, instead of, say, _Divination_ , because _those_ sound like some frankly _miserable_ odds, and Greengrass... _Daphne_ still seems far too cheery in the face of them. On the other hand, the witch sits in both Arithmancy and Transfiguration with Hermione. Maths _shouldn't_ be the issue here. 

Next Hermione has a strange turn where she wonders if they calculate the odds like that on making it unhexed to _every_ class. It definitely seems suspicious that they're all so cognisant of the numbers. It doesn't sound like... _fun_. 

And then she has an even stranger turn where it occurs to her that _this_ fight they're facing right now is only because of _her_.  
  


_It's not her fault_, she doesn't feel that _at all_ , of course not. It never occurs to her; it's completely out of the question. She has a rather lengthy list of people whom she considers at fault for... any of this, and her name is _definitely_ not on it. But the Slytherins _could_ have ducked this, beyond any doubt, by _not_ standing up for her. It would have been _that_ easy. 

And yet they hadn't flinched. 

This isn't friendship, there's no confusing it for that. On the other hand, _friendship_ hasn't seemed so very much like... well, _friendship_ lately. This... _This_ is probably some queer mix of duty and pride, made possible by a series of Obliviations and lies. 

Oof.

She has _no idea_ how she feels about that. _Any_ of it. She defers any decision on the matter. One thing at a time...  
  


"A lot of those are Hufflepuffs," Goyle tries to encourage her, quite reasonably misreading her expression. Anything _else_ would have required Legilimency. "And Macmillan is still missing."

"Ah, well then. Only _two and five sixths_ to one." So clearly _not_ a maths problem then... "That makes _all_ the difference," Tracey snarks with some affection. Gregory has a way of trying to see the bright side of things that she often finds amusing, and more than a little remarkable considering the family's situation. His outlook seems vastly... preferable to Vince's given much the same circumstances. It probably helps that the Goyles aren't nearly the rabid fanatics that the Crabbes are. For Tracey, that's... hard to stomach. 

"Plus Macmillan doesn't put up much of a fight," Theo, all too typically, feels the need to detract from his earlier success. It's a bit of a shame, as he'd done some really good work in that duel. 

"You lot are a bad influence," Daphne quietly informs Draco's back. And then trying to sound more confident than she is, merrily quips, "Well, I've never been done for duelling before."

"But you _can_ do, and that's what matters," Tracey softly assures her. "Just remember Professor Snape's self defence course and you'll be fine."

Hermione now very much wants to know when the hell _that_ was offered and _why_ the hell _she_ hadn't been in it. She and her husband will be having... words. 

Which is probably the moment she begins to understand she's... off. Slaphappy. _Punchy_. Not that the realisation helps her any, but there it is. 

"If we get detention," Daphne further demands of Draco's shoulders, " _you're_ explaining this to my mother."

"Agreed." _Probably over tea with his mother in Hogsmeade..._ But it's only a matter of time before Daphne finds out how much of this is his fault anyway. He may as well begin working against that now. He imagines it will take quite some time until that ledger is balanced. 

Tracey turns to Hermione and in little more than a whisper suggests, "If the Hexes start flying, keep behind Draco."  
  


Hermione almost laughs. For one thing, she _very_ much wants to keep him in sight. For another, the idea of using _Malfoy_ as a _human shield_ has a _ridiculous_ amount of appeal. 

She has a quick vision of herself, hiding behind Malfoy's back, sticking her head out now and again to repetitively taunt Ronald, and then just _watching_ them unleash the Hexes on one another... 

_Beautiful_. 

It _really_ has far, _far_ too much appeal. She _so_ wants that. So much so, it's probably not healthy... 

But she schools her face instead and answers, "Thank you. I'll be sure to do that." Tracey gives her a funny look, so perhaps it wasn't quite as schooled as she'd hoped, but Hermione can tell the young woman means her well, and manages what she hopes is a friendly smile in return.  
  


Which is when three things happen almost at once. Harry and Ron had turned back at Finch-Fletchley's call and just come into sight, and Harry's begun shouting out, "Hey, 'Mione, what're you doing with..." he sounds offended. Ragwort. 

It's not an insult, but it sounds like it _should_ be. Toxic. Hermione is sure. 

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, the Bloody Baron appears between them and the wand brandishing clump of Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs that are now approaching from the front and with a terrifying rattle of chains, silences Harry and hisses, "There will be no duelling here." Unsurprisingly, everyone comes to a complete halt. 

Oh, but Hermione really _likes_ him. And she can't help wondering how he manages to be heard so well despite never raising his voice above a whisper. For once the answer probably isn't 'magic'.

And into the sort of shocked silence that ensues, Morag MacDougal now also appears, almost as surprisingly as the apparition, sweeping down towards their little group at a good clip with a cheerful, "Malfoy!" and wave of her whole arm _far_ more excessive than Daphne's, and then rather demonstratively puts herself between Harry and his lot and the Slytherins as she walks towards them, making something of a shield of _herself_. _Certainly_ an impediment. 

That seems to work well enough, as everyone's wands lower. But then that might have been the Baron's doing, it's hard to say.  
  


"You really can't seem to get enough today," Morag quips as she gets closer. Draco's hand begins to reach for his ear, before he notices and stops it. 

_She_ notices and smirks. And there he is, staring at her lips again. She can't recommend that lippy enough. 

"So, not joining their side again?" He asks her. An eyebrow raised in silent accusation, but the tone wisely very neutral. She _did_ just put herself in what might well have been harm's way, after all.

She shrugs. "Nott was right. We were way out of line earlier." She gives Hermione a somewhat lopsided apologetic smile that she can't quite reconcile. It's just as well. She _really_ doesn't need to know what was said. 

"Although I thought you looked good with a little colour in your cheeks," Morag taunts Draco. He manages not to blush this time. 

"So what brought about this realisation?" His tone is a little friendlier now, and perhaps a bit teasing. 

"What can I say? It's all pretty straightforward. I gave it some thought. You three were right. We were in the wrong." Another shrug, this time accompanied by a smile. "We absolutely suck," Morag sums up nicely, coming to stand now just to Draco's side. 

He owes her one from earlier, and he lowers his voice so that hopefully only she will hear, looks her straight in the eye, and somewhat cockily tells her, "I _like_ that in a witch." He's a little smug, counting on making _her_ squirm this time. Of course, he's reckoned without his host. Or as Daphne would tell him: counted his Fwoopers before they've hatched. 

Morag gives him an _incredibly_ wicked grin, he's back to staring at her lips, she leans in a little and only just breathes, "And when I'm in the mood, pretty boy, I even _swallow_." 

And just like _that_ , he finds _himself_ incapable of swallowing.

She doesn't give him a break, she just continues with a smirk and a dramatic sigh, "Oh, for fuck's sake, Malfoy. The correct response is 'I like that even more.' Can't swear, can't banter. You _really_ aren't good at this..." She winks. 

He has no answer for her, but the colour she liked has indeed returned to his cheeks. He really is too easy. 

Tracey, who was standing the closest to the two of them caught at least some of the exchange. That, coupled with Draco's reaction... Well, she half snorts at his discomfiture. "Come on," she prompts "We'd best not be late to class," and they resume their trek to the greenhouses.  
  


The Baron waits for them to come almost abreast of him and then leads them in a thoroughly bizarre procession past the small crowd from the other three Houses that's now assembled there. Staring. 

Ron's sputtering, "What the hell is that?"

Harry sort of disbelievingly croaks, "'Mione?"

Justin, always so eager to be in the know, or at least to be seen that way, tells them, "Apparently that's her thing now. Hannah says she was hanging about with them before Arithmancy."

"And the _Bloody Baron_ was _there_ as well, too," Susan, appalled, feels the need to emphasise, but amusingly not above a whisper. Her throat goes dry when the ghost nevertheless seems to hear and looks her way. 

Hannah sort of wishes she'd kept her mouth shut. 

As they reach them Ron calls out, "So what are you now, 'Mione? The Bride of Slytherin?" Harry elbows him in the gut in a way that might have Lav completely redefining 'indignity', but it's too late to stop him.

Hermione, almost unbelievably calm, merely gives Ron a baleful look as she passes before heading in to class, glad she sits with Neville in this one, too.

Harry registers her behaviour, and finally has to admit it was probably a lot milder than they have any right to expect. _Way_ milder. Almost tranquil, really. He's reminded of what Ginny had suggested about how Hermione's most likely taking some sort of Calming Draught and feels guilty once more. Once she's out of sight, he elbows Ron again. 

That only gets him a disgruntled, "What?!"

* * *

  


Herbology comes to an unusual end shortly before the hour when the five Slytherins jump from their seats and rush from the room, more or less as a unit. Hermione wonders if they train for these kinds of things. Naturally it makes little sense for the onlookers as no one has any way of knowing they're in a rush to gather to open the Poste Serpentes. 

Belatedly it dawned on the Snakes that they had no good way of explaining their early departure to Madam Snape. A serious cock-up after all the attention they attracted on their march to class. Tracey will give Draco a piece of her mind for that later. How fortunate that she has brains to spare. But looking at his arm, they had silently agreed _that_ will have to wait until tomorrow at the earliest. By then, as luck would have it, she'll also be feeling a lot less kindly towards him. 

Theo reckons Draco had enough on his mind and blames himself instead, of course. This was poorly managed and there's no excuse. 

They couldn't even sensibly use a Notice-Me-Nott to help fill her in, because Wrongbottom was sitting between them, and there's no way the super-swot is just going to follow them out of there. She won't grasp the dynamics of the situation until it's too late...

But the Serpents don't leave them very much choice, and Draco's on a Tempus. Gregory, too, of course, but... Three! _Three Serpents_... Merlin. 

There are a bunch of muttered, indistinct explanations as they leave that no one understands (not that it matters, because they didn't actually explain a thing). That's besides Daphne's, "Sorry," which Hermione is pretty sure was directed more at her than Professor Sprout.  
  


Which is precisely the moment she realises she's now on her own with... everyone else. That is closely followed by the completely unexpected realisation she'd felt _safer_ with the Snakes there. Holy Cricket. 

Well, she's buggered now. 

Professor Sprout looks quite startled by the mass exodus and then simply shrugs and calls an early end to class. And Hermione is back to deliberating how to get herself out of there without her... retinue, although she's now virtually certain the Baron will be waiting for her outside.  
  


Neville takes matters in hand by turning to ask her, a little louder than necessary, so she's fairly certain this is for Harry's and Ron's benefit, "Hermione, would you like to take a look at some of the things I'll be working on for my internship?"

"I'd love to, Neville. Thank you very much." She'd have enjoyed looking at his projects either way, but she especially appreciates his consideration right _now_. She wasn't completely wrong about seeing the knight in him. 

Ron's still muttering variations on his 'Bride of Slytherin' theme, they may be becoming increasingly more insulting as he goes, and Harry's just trying to get him out of there. _Again_. He feels like too much of his day has been spent dragging the ginger through the castle and grounds, and he's trying to remember why he doesn't just put a Langlock on him and leave it. The answer is because Ron can easily lift it himself, knowing the Incantation as he does. Hermione would point out that _this_ is an advantage to learning _unusual_ spells, _and_ not sharing them, but as _that_ would probably dictate reading as well as keeping one's mouth shut... Well, that observation wouldn't be likely to do him very much good.

Hermione ignores Harry as he walks past, but she _could_ just have given Ron her most expressive 'fuck you' smile. Anyone else might take it for sweet, but with the situation as it is between them, it's just oil on the flames. Predictably, it sets him off again, Harry puts up yet another Muffliato, that's rapidly becoming ubiquitous, and Hermione's back to picturing herself stood behind Malfoy, winding Ron up and watching them _Hex_ the bollocks off one another. 

Holy Cricket, that _really_ does the trick for her. 

Harry's muttering dark things about idiot friends as he drags Ron from the greenhouse. Not that anyone but the idiot friend can hear anything but the buzz of his Privacy Charm.  
  


Neville, who had gone on ahead of Hermione and remains largely unaware of the exchange, leads her over to Professor Sprout as the rest of the students leave. MacDougal and Hannah give Hermione sympathetic looks as they file out; other people's guilt can be advantageous. Lav and Parvati take whispered counsel before deciding their interrogation of their Housemate will simply have to wait until dinner and leaving. They'll be disappointed of course. 

Meanwhile Neville explains what he had in mind to the Herbology Professor, and she's just as pleased as Neville is to show his Housemate some of their work. Right off, Hermione's happy to notice one of his plants is the same thistle that had adorned her... wedding dinner tray. Naturally, she can't help but ask about it.

"That's Thickening Thistle," Neville explains. "We're experimenting with a new variety, theoretically more potent. Our hope is it will make for a better Liver Tonic.

"The thing about this kind is it produces Potions with a more favourable viscosity." He smirks a little, all too aware of the irony of him trying to tell her something... _anything_ about Potions. "The idea behind it being _that_ should be more beneficial, entering into the patients' systems more slowly." 

Hermione wonders if this is the wizarding equivalent to time-released medications. Neville wouldn't know what they are, so she doesn't ask, but she's correct. That's precisely what he and Professor Sprout are hoping to be able to facilitate with the new Potions ingredient. 

"'Viscosity', huh? Just look at you. All Potions savvy." Her grin assures him he isn't being mocked, and he reddens a little, embarrassed. 

"Well, it's a lot easier when I don't have to actually _brew_ the stuff and I'm only growing the ingredients," he allows with a sheepish chuckle. 

"It suits you Neville." Her smile is warming. "Why wouldn't you just add an edible thickener to the regular thistle instead?"

"You normally can't thicken the Potion without drastically reducing the milk thistle's benefits. There are only a few thickeners that _wouldn't_ interfere, things like doxy eggs..." 

"And their thickening properties are temperature sensitive," she completes his thought. 

He nods, "They fail to work at the temperature range required to make the Potion, every last one. And anyway, this sort of thistle is purported to be a lot stronger." His grin completely takes over his face at being able to answer a Potions related question, well, Potions _ingredient_ related, but still... For _Hermione_ no less. He's _rapt_. 

Hermione is now smiling almost as broadly. "It _sounds_ promising. So what's the problem you're having with it?" Professor Sprout stands there glowing with pride as he describes some of the difficulties they're having trying to grow it in the greenhouse. He really has an amazing grasp of the matter. 

Apparently it normally grows at much higher altitudes in areas with a thinner atmosphere, more sun and less pollution. As robust as the plants usually are, it's practically a weed, this thistle is proving unusually... tricky. Finicky. It's just not thriving, which ultimately diminishes its potency. 

"It simply fails to reach its potential," he declares with a sad but so very serious shake of his head. 

Hermione smiles again as she listens to him explain it. There's something truly nice about watching Neville in his element, and he really, well, _blossoms_ here. Coming into _his_ potential, as it were. It really _does_ suit him.  
  


He ushers her around, presenting a few other plants, Professor Sprout interjecting with an anecdote every now and again. The Herbologist, Hermione can't help noticing, keeps speaking a bit loudly - obviously _that's_ not for Ron's sake - shaking her head and occasionally hitting her right ear. Hermione is fairly certain Luna would pronounce 'Wrackspurts' as the issue. She's wondering if it might be the result of sudden hearing loss... 

Briefly her, well, _the Professor's_... Howler from this morning crosses her mind - it's conceivable Professor Sprout had been similarly... blessed - but Hermione decides not to let thoughts like that ruin her mood. Somehow that's much easier now than it was earlier today. She supposes Neville and Luna have made a _real_ difference there, and then it occurs to her the _Slytherin_ support had also helped. Which is just weird... Well, certainly the Baron's support had. But she can't shake the feeling that there's something coming over the bond... She feels more... buoyant. 

Which is really strange, as she's _positive_ the Professor's mood isn't... good.

As Neville finishes, Hermione thanks them both for showing her about the place. Which jogs her memory. And her manners. She turns and addresses Professor Sprout. "And I especially wanted to thank you for the beautiful flowers, both Sunday and this morning. They were _gorgeous_." 

"Oh, not at all, my dear. That was my pleasure." Pomona's eyes tick uncertainly to Mr. Longbottom, but then again the news _had_ been announced to one and all... "Congratulations, I'm sure," she finishes with more conviction and a welcoming smile. It helps greatly that Miss Granger, Madam Snape that is, isn't in her House. Pomona isn't uncomfortable with _her_ bonding as such, more the idea of it happening in the school at all. That _is_ disquieting. But the young woman can hardly help that...  
  


Something else crosses Hermione's mind, and she asks, "Do you have Centaurea here? Cornflower?”

“You mean Bachelor’s Buttons?” Professor Sprout asks.

Considering the number of buttons a certain ex-bachelor usually seems to sport, Hermione finds herself trying to suppress her grin. Somehow it strikes her as funnier now that she's begun to come to terms with the fact that he _is_ an 'ex-bachelor'. "The very same," she agrees, but the Herbologist has already turned, bustling away to lead her to them, and Hermione and Neville just follow. 

"There's such a sweet tradition to them, do you know it?" Neville has already shaken his head 'no' and Professor Sprout is off in her usual hearty fashion. "Well, bachelors would wear them as boutonnières," unnecessarily her hand goes to her ample chest to imitate the placement of such a spray, "hence the colloquial name, when they went courting to signal to their intended that they had forsworn _all_ others for her. That she was the _only_ one for them... 

"It's all so _very_ romantic. Flowers are lovely things, aren't they?" Neville, naturally, nods. Hermione, strangely enough, finds herself blushing and glad their attention is focused elsewhere. Oddly, the Professor hadn't mentioned any of this when he'd explained the flower's meaning to her. 

As it's not a strictly practical aspect of the flower, she's now calculating the odds on whether or not he'd have known of it. Given he'd known the Victorian flower code, she thinks it's not altogether unlikely. But she has to admit she can understand why he might not have felt comfortable telling her about the associated lore...

The vine of a Flitterbloom reaches out and curls around Professor Sprout's ankle as she leads them down the path between two large potting tables. She absently uses a Diffindo to free her leg and then smacks the plant back into place, proceeding as though it were nothing, which for her it probably is considering the quantities of Venomous Tentacula she raises. She Banishes the leaves still around her ankle to the compost bin and continues without missing a beat. 

"And the story then goes that the cornflower would show if the recipient of the wizard's attentions held him in _her_ affections or not. Just how much he's loved..." She sighs. She has a weakness for romances. "Of course it would _wilt_ if she didn't. That seems fitting. It's cheating a bit, naturally, as they don't tend to wilt so very quickly." She winks and Neville chuckles, appreciating the floral ploy. That in itself would be sufficient to endear him to the Hufflepuff, were she not already so frightfully fond of the boy. 

When she stops in front of a small sea of gently wafting waves of blue, Hermione recognises they’re not quite the same as the flower from Sunday evening. Close, _very_ close, but it's clearly a different species. 

"But we don't grow them just so people will have something for their buttonholes, do we?" Neville enquires. 

Professor Sprout laughs, "No, not at all. Not much call for them with your set. They consider it too old fashioned, I'd imagine. More's the pity. No, we keep it on hand for bouts of pink eye, prosaically enough. There's always plenty of that in the school, although the bluet is delightful in a cup of tea as well. Earl Grey, for example," she explains serenely, running her hands very lightly over the heads of the flowers. They're hands that have worked hard and long for decades, their strength readily apparent, and yet as she runs them over the cornflowers, her touch is surprisingly gentle. Nurturing. 

"I don't suppose there's any truth to the story?" Neville would like to know. He has to ask; in their society, one can never really tell. Hermione's gone unusually quiet. 

"Well not with _these_ cornflowers," the Herbology Professor laughs. "But I've heard there are varieties... Magical varieties, you understand - can't say I've ever seen them, though - with a great deal more use for healing applications. One wonders if that's where the myth of the telltale boutonnière stems from..."

"'Stems' from?" Neville challenges. 

Professor Sprout laughs. "I can't help myself." She winks again. 

"That's definitely the _flower_ I meant, but I don't think it's the same variety. Do you have any other sorts?" Hermione asks. 

"Not in bloom at the moment." Which now has Hermione wondering where Sunny had gotten the flower from. She wishes the Professor hadn't Vanished it so quickly, but then, to be perfectly honest, if he hadn't, she probably wouldn't even be interested in the bloom. She laughs at herself. 

"Of course, these are delayed blooms," the Herbologist continues, "or they wouldn't be blooming now either. They're obviously not in season, but I used a Cooling Charm this summer, and, well, here we are... So useful, that Charm. Temperature regulation as a whole, really. Quite lovely, aren’t they?” Professor Sprout asks with a bearing almost as proud and nearly as maternal as the one she takes on when Neville holds court on their plants. 

“Yes, they are,” Hermione agrees. 

With some reluctance, she shakes off the spell of the flowers. “Well, I should be getting back.”

She thanks them again for the tour and the Professor leaves to see to some adjustments on Irrigation Charms they’re trialing. Neville walks Hermione to the greenhouse doors. 

"I'm really glad you seem to have found your niche, Neville." 

He laughs and says, "You know, actually, _that's_ what gave me the idea to ask Professor Sprout for the internship. I really have to thank you for that."

Hermione's brow furrows vaguely, not following, "I'm sorry, what was?"

"Friday." He answers, and she has a flash of panic. Friday! Oof... "It got me thinking. You were talking with the others about finding your own niche. Well, um, maybe yelling..." He looks a little uncomfortable about that, not meaning to rub her nose in her problems. He's just doesn't know how else to prod her memory. She doesn't seem to remember what she'd said, and yet it had made such a huge difference to him... 

She's more than equally uncomfortable as she recalls the argument that had sent her out Friday evening... And suddenly she knows _exactly_ what he means. 

There's an incredibly brief moment when she teeters between... everything. There's panic, fear, anger, outrage, hurt, sadness, shame, embarrassment, so _many_ things associated with the events of that night, but now there's this... laughter, and it's like it's all just sitting there waiting for her to decide which way she's going to go. 

She takes a decision.

It's not like the Draughts aren't helping, they surely are. Or the support she's received, her day would have been a nightmare without it. Or even the strange whatever it is through the bond... But still, in _this_ moment _she decides_ how she feels. Fortunately she comes down on the healthier side of all... that. 

She begins to giggle. 

It's not long before she's overcome with laughter. 

"Oh, Neville... I think you got that all wrong," she tells him between hiccoughs of laughter. "I was _arguing_ with them about using the common room's _study niche_..." 

He stands there blinking and thinking that over and then just starts laughing along with her. "I guess it was a good thing I wasn't listening closely..."  
  


"Either way, I'm happy for you," she tells him again as their laughs subside, feeling sort of pleasantly exhausted and wiping a tear from her eye.

“Will you be alright returning on your own?” He asks, confirming her suspicions that the timing of this tour had been dictated primarily by a desire to get her clear of Ron. And possibly even Harry... 

"If not, I still need to get a little work done here, but we could walk back together for dinner..." he offers.

“It should be fine now. Thank you, Neville.” She beams at him. 

“If you need anything...” he falters, because it’s not their dynamic. _He’s_ the one who _needs_ , and _she’s_ always the one who _gives_ , it’s been that way since the day they met, and he’s not sure he’s ever had much of anything to offer before. 

“Thank you, Neville,” she repeats and gives his arm a grateful squeeze before she turns to head back to the castle. Her smile leaves him feeling better about himself. More worthwhile somehow.

* * *

  


Quite as she expected, she hasn’t gone far before the Bloody Baron fades into view beside her. She greets him with a ready smile; he continues to find her... puzzling. 

But he won't allow 'puzzling' to keep him from his... duty. 

Not that fulfilling aforementioned duty in any way diminishes the number of thoroughly baffled looks he regularly throws her way. No, that's a fairly regular occurrence. 

They cross the grounds, working their way back to the castle, and she merrily tells him all about the things she'd seen in the greenhouses - he imagines he'll emerge from this better informed, if nothing else - as he quietly accompanies her back to her chambers. 

There she makes a discovery both pleasant and disturbing. 

The wards, she's startled and more than a bit happy to note, feel just as good as they had yesterday. _Better_ possibly. _Amazing_ , actually. 

That's not the problem. Amazing is nice. Hell, it's... amazing. Very impressive, excellent. By _definition_. No, that's not the issue at all. 

A bit of deductive reasoning, however, and she's beginning to suspect that _how_ they feel has something to do with whether or not the Professor is... in. Which throws up a whole slew of questions she finds... tricky. Dangerous. She's not at all sure she should pursue them. 

Not that that has ever stopped her before. 

She is reasonably sure if she asks Sunny, he'll be able to confirm the Professor had been in his office the whole time when she returned home after classes yesterday. Just as he'd been in the adjoining classroom when she returned to chambers yesterday morning. And she's equally sure that when she opens this door, he'll be somewhere within their wards now, too... 

More eagerly than she'd care to admit, she may have squeaked - at this rate, the Baron's going to think she does that all the time - she opens the door...

* * *

  


Filius has called one of his fourth year Slytherins over for a small confab after class. He’s just trying to explain to the younger Mr. Hutchinson, Hunter as it happens, why his swish needs to be more, well, _swishy_ and his enunciation leaves a little to be desired. These things can make a great deal of difference, as he knows all too well. 

He’s still rubbing the knot on the back of his head from where the less swishy swish had sent him flying. 

He really should Charm the walls and furnishings on days like these; somehow he’s always the one to take flight. It might be the smaller comparative mass, or it might be that some of his students take advantage of the opportunity to unleash some pent up aggressions. Charms can be tricky. And frustrating. 

Nevertheless, he finds that hard to believe of Mr. Hutchinson, and is firmly convinced, with just a _bit_ of extra help, this problem could be quickly resolved. 

Naturally he’s all the more surprised when the boy darts from the room instead. 

But of course, Filius has never heard of the Poste Serpentes either, and hadn’t observed their arrival this morning.  
  


He’s just trying to work out what could have gotten into the lad when there’s a knock on his door. It’s young Miss Devi, and by Gryffindor standards, she’s rather timidly asking if he has a few minutes to spare for her.

“Of course, my dear. Come right in and take a seat.”

“I wanted to thank you, Sir, for reversing the Charm. You know, the one I put on my brother?” She supplies, just in case he were unsure, still standing awkwardly, but closer to his desk now. 

Filius smiles at that. “Yes, I was telling my colleagues, that was lovely bit of work you did there. I was quite impressed.” 

“I appreciate that,” she tells him openly. “That compliment probably got me out of more detentions, to be honest. Well, that and your Countercharm, obviously.” She shuffles a little gawkily and then tries again from a different approach. She’s been carrying something sort of hidden in her robes and now she holds it out to him instead. He looks at her, a little curiously, and then she deposits it on his desk.

He’s cautiously studying it as she now finally takes a seat. 

It’s an old text, probably _very_ , he suspects from India, given the characteristics of the decorations, decidedly ethnic. Not leather bound... He believes some manner of snakeskin, from the pattern, with gold embossing. “May I?” He asks before touching it. She thinks he’s a bit daft to have done so, but then she has a great deal less experience with these things than he does. It isn’t simply a question of manners, it’s also a wise precaution. 

“Sure,” she’s quick to agree. He has the book open in a trice, he’d been that eager. His suspicions are quickly confirmed. It’s an exceptionally ancient work, he can _feel_ the Preservation Charms on it, that's how strong they are, presumably from the Indian subcontinent, able to be Charmed readable, thank his lucky stars - which he discovers when he immediately tries to render it so with a Translation Charm - and he’s almost certain this is a family heirloom. 

Miss Devi confirms some of that for him, “That’s the book where I found the Charm I used. My grandmother left it to me.”

“It’s beautiful.” He tells her, quite honestly somewhat enchanted by that beauty. 

She shrugs. “I wanted you to have it.”

That puts an immediate stop to his perusal of the book, he closes it and Banishes it back to her desk. “I couldn’t, Miss Devi. Thank you very much for the generous offer, my dear, it's so very kind, but I _really_ couldn’t. It’s far too valuable.”

"It's like this," she tries to explain, "Professor McGonagall kept me after class today," she begins to fidget at the thought, "and she made it very clear how displeased she was, um, about Dhanesh's tail."

Filius has a hard time not smirking thinking about Minerva's response to student canoodling. "Yes," he encourages the girl.

She's begun scratching her head nervously. "Well, she was set to give me a bunch of detentions unless I put an end to the Spell on him. She _really_ wasn't happy about it." She starts kicking her legs back and forth, becoming visibly more anxious at the thought. 

"I guess my mother sent a Howler this morning, and Professor McGonagall figured when she heard about the tail, well, she'd probably send more." 

Filius has met the woman before. Heavens, he remembers her from her days as a student, and he would agree with that statement in a heartbeat. Of course, it helps explain Minerva's reaction to the appendage. Greatly. Merlin knows, Filius is happy _he's_ not the one to have to deal with the Devi matron. 

"So it was _really_ helpful to be able to tell her you'd already sorted it."

"Well, I'm sure she'd have given you a chance to deal with it first," he tries to defend his colleague. Given the girl had already been disciplined for casting the Spell to begin with... It seems likely Minerva would have given her the chance to lift it before resorting to punishing her again. 

"Yeah." She goes quiet. "Except I didn't know how to do that." One shoulder twitches up in a self-conscious shrug, her discomfort obvious, but she finally looks up and meets his gaze. "I didn't know the Countercharm." 

"Wasn't it in the book?" He asks, a little surprised. It's been known to happen, but most books make an effort to include both the Charm and Countercharm or it greatly reduces their value. 

"Oh, it was, but I couldn't make, forgive me, head nor tail of it." He chuckles, and she gives him a slightly impish smile. "If I'm being honest, I hadn't quite understood that part. I was kind of counting on the Spell just sort of wearing off at some point. Resolving itself?" There's another half shrug and an even more mischievous smile, "I probably shouldn't have chosen that Charm, really." 

He's been at the school more than long enough to know, Gryffindors frequently have a way of employing Charms they don't fully understand. Merlin knows, he's usually the one who has to undo the Spells gone awry. 

"Anyway, the book is probably better off in your hands. Please. I'd really like for you to have it." She extends it to him again, and this time he hops off his chair and walks around his desk to take it from her. 

"Perhaps if you wait until you're older, then you'd find yourself better able to understand it?" He suggests, leaning against his desk, not too far from the one where she's seated, and trying to keep his fingers from curling all too possessively around the tome's spine while he endeavours to make her see sense. 

"No, Sir, I rather doubt it. And if I really wanted the information, in a few years I should just be able to purchase it again." He blinks once, taken aback at her casual approach both to money and what he is certain is such a rare work. "But if you wouldn't mind," she adds, "perhaps you could teach me the Countercharm." 

"I'd be more than glad to," he smiles, but manages not to chuckle. "I assume your brother asked?" She grins quite broadly and nods. 

Filius has quite some years of experience with students under his tiny belt, and he patiently waits her out. 

Eventually she supplies, "He's of age, and now he's bonded. This autumn he came into _both_ of his trust funds our grandmother created for us. The first on his birthday and the second just this morning, because he and Kiera got married."

There's no envy as she says it, but she sounds just a little wishful. And then her features settle into something decidedly... frustrated. "I'm not even of age yet, so when I want something, I have to write home and ask our mother for it, and she, well, she rarely approves. There's a Hogsmeade weekend coming up, and Dhanesh offered to make it very worth my while if I taught him the Tailing Charm, but it's no good without the Countercharm." She shrugs, both shoulders this time, she's relaxing a little, "It's worth the book to me to learn it." 

"And yet you gave me the book first," Filius reminds her. 

She shrugs again, "It seemed less... transactional? And I guessed right. You were still willing to teach it to me." 

He laughs and holds the book out to her, "I'd be happy to teach you the Countercharm anyway, you needn't give me your book." 

"No, Sir," she pushes it gently back towards him. "You keep it. I meant it, I didn't understand most of it anyway. It's of more use to you. When Dhanesh says 'very worth my while' he _really_ means it. And sooner or later, Dhanesh would have thought to ask you, and then you'd have been just as happy to teach him, only then I'd have been out of the loop. I wouldn't be getting any money, and you wouldn't have had the book. This way, everyone gets something they want." 

Filius looks at her appraisingly and his forehead wrinkles as he tries to remember. "You were a Hatstall, weren't you, Miss Devi?" 

She tips her head somewhat noncommittally to the side and corrects, "Almost." 

He considers her academic performance, only marginally more promising than her brother's decidedly unspectacular achievements, the lack of value she places on the rare tome, her thoroughly unruffled admission of her inability to understand much of it... "But not, I should think, with Ravenclaw." 

She begins to smirk mischievously. "No," she agrees. 

"You wouldn't have been a bad fit in Slytherin," he tells her, quite sure that was the other choice. 

"I had no desire to write home and tell my mother I hadn't been sorted into Gryffindor. Everyone has for _generations_. I don't think she'd have taken it well." 

"She's your _mum_. I'm sure she'd love you no matter..." 

"Do you know what 'Hafsa' means?" She interrupts, and Filius must concede: he does not. "'Cub'. She named me 'cub'. 'Little _lioness_ '. Tell me again she'd love me anyway." 

"I see your point," he thinks for a few moments and then gives her the best advice he can, "At some point, it's quite acceptable, healthy even, to live to fulfil _yourself_. You won't always be able to please others." 

"I'm quite certain I _won't_ ," she agrees with a smile that has him thinking she's in entirely the wrong House. "But I thought it would make sense to wait until I had access to my trust funds first." 

"I can't fault your logic, Miss Devi." He considers once more and tries again, "And you're sure you wouldn't wish to keep the book in memory of your Gran?"

She snorts. It was an _actual_ snort. He'll take that as a 'no' then, but she's clearly used to dealing with the less astute and explains, "She reminded me a lot of mother."

There's no judicious response to that and so he cleverly holds his tongue on the matter. "Hmm. Very well, Miss Devi, why don't we see about teaching you that Countercharm?" The grin she gives him is heart warming and leaves him feeling he's hasn't done badly by her after all. 

They practice both the Charm and Countercharm until dinner, and - with the exception of a fit of uncontrollable giggles when it occurred to Hafsa that between the tail, his size, his nose, and his natural dueller's stance, Professor Flitwick looked more like the mouse that roared than Dhanesh ever would - they got along splendidly.

* * *

  


Back in his chambers - on the floor thereof, more specifically - Severus is struggling to make some sense of Miss Granger's emotional roller coaster. Not that he particularly _wants_ to, but it's been quite overwhelming all afternoon long. It keeps hammering at him, demanding attention like a needy child... 

He finds himself _very_ eager not to draw any parallels with that analogy. 

Listening to the bond, it's proving incredibly difficult not to, there's... fucking _everything_. 

She goes through more emotions in an afternoon than he does in a year.  
  


Presumably her life has more variety...

The overwhelming _amusement_ had left him utterly without words. 

He can't begin to imagine feeling _that_ after everything that's occurred - to both or _either_ of them - over the past few days. He's more than a little offended that she seems able to be off somewhere, possibly laughing herself silly, when he'd only just finished fighting for his life. _Again_. 

He forgets that she's only too aware he's alright. Well, _mostly_ alright. She no longer needs to see that for herself. She can _feel_ it well enough. 

In retrospect, given the occasional spike of fear, he realises he can count himself lucky that the Geas hadn't forced him to respond. It would seem he no longer just needs the Sober Up in case he's... _called_. 

He thinks a variety of unpleasant thoughts about the bond and Albus, neglecting in his funk to consider that as a Head of House, he's really never off duty anyway. The bond may place another demand on him, but in some ways, far too many ways really, it's just more of the same...

Of course, that disregards the involuntariness of the Protection Vow's call to action, which he's quite right to find more frightening. 

The feline has ceased playing with his Transfigured ball of yarn and returned to Severus' side, and the wizard has resumed petting the creature. There's something... relaxing about the purrs his fingers seem to generate, the rumblings he can feel beneath them in the animal's chest, and he is apparently able to occupy himself for long stretches doing nothing but that. Well, _that_ and drinking. 

Thinking they've achieved a degree of understanding between them, he asks the animal, "How difficult would it have been for her to just take the Potion like I had suggested? Was it asking too much?" 

The cat 'mrowr's in response, and Severus is now quite sure, they're coming to understand one another.

* * *

  


_Far away, on the South Side of Diagon Alley..._

Rita Skeeter is going over her notes for the final time. She's satisfied she has a cracking result in her grubby little hands, jumps from her seat and closing her brightly lacquered talons evermore tightly over the piece of parchment, she storms into the antechamber of Barnabas Cuffe's office. 

Maude, the editor-in-chief's hapless secretary, leaps up and tries to put up at least _some_ resistance, but Rita has no compunction whatsoever about casting a Body-bind to clear the way. Serves the woman right if she forgets she's a witch. Maude thuds inelegantly to the floor - not that's it's particularly easy to 'thud' elegantly, but Maude fails in this as in so many things - and with a casual, "Is he in? I only need a minute..." Rita steps over the prone form and pushes her way into Barnabas' office.

Barnabas is indeed surprised at the disturbance, less so that someone has once again gotten past Maude, and even less so to see Rita, of all witches, or discover that she has left the poor girl immobile on the office floor, of all places. No, that seems about right. He's known Rita too long to be shocked by that. 

"Rita? Do I want to know?"

"Barnabas, I have _just_ the thing for the front page of the evening edition," she crows, waving her parchment in front of him. He looks sceptical. 

"Out of the question, I'm afraid. Smudgley already has the slot," he informs her. 

"But I have an inside line. Dumbledore has completely flipped his wig..." She wheedles, depositing the parchment in front of him. 

"Won't happen. Smudgley's doing a piece on the death of Barry the roofer with vertigo. He's got page one."

"Barry!" She scoffs, "No one cares about Barry." And that right there was easily half the reason the man was being buried the day after tomorrow... "But there've been some exceptionally strange goings-on at Hogwarts this weekend..."

"Exceptionally old fashioned, more like. Yes, I've heard. Sounds tedious. _Bondings_." His eye roll is almost audible. "Just the thing for the great granny-set." Rita stares at him in disbelief. He can just make out the muffled moans of Maude from the front room. He waves his wand, flicks a Silencing Charm in her direction and carries on. There was never any question of closing his door and subjecting himself to Rita's company even a moment longer than need be. 

"But..." she starts in again, and Barnabas decides to cut this short. 

"No."

She blinks, and he can already see her making up her mind where to peddle her story next. "But..." he begins, and her eyes refocus. He has her full attention. "I think that might be just the thing for them to take with their Sunday tea. Give me a full work up, the history of bonds, everything..."

"Wouldn't we do better to concentrate on what drove the old goat to this madness?"

"Make it a separate piece, and I'll decide Saturday if we run with it, too."

"Front page?" She asks. He can already see her planning to owl the Quibbler if he says 'no'. 

But he easily hooks her again, "If you come up with a good story, I don't see why not. But I want full and thorough backgrounds," he tells her. 

She can't begin to imagine why he doesn't want to run the piece now, but the chance for the front page and having them run two articles... Well, hers is not to reason why. There's little point to it anyway, as she doesn't know who came to see him this morning or that the individual's father had been a roommate of Cuffe's at school, and that the editor has always been something of an honorary uncle. 

She rushes out of the office to make notes, hopping over Maude on her way. Rita has Floo calls to make, owls to send. Sunday's headline will be _hers_. She can practically taste it.  
  


Barnabas lifts the Silencing Charm from his secretary, "Can you get yourself out of that... Hmm? Fine. Finite Incantatem. And I could use a cup of tea."

Maude lies there thinking for the eighth time this afternoon that she _desperately_ needs to find a different job.

* * *

  


Hermione returns to their chambers late that afternoon to find the Professor deep in his cups. Hell, he's deep in his bottle. And from the looks of it, it's almost empty. That _can't_ be good. Just how _bad_ it is probably depends on how _full_ it was to begin with. A quick reccy of the dining table reveals that the bottle they'd, _he'd_ received as a present is still there. And closed. So that's a relief. 

There's a flicker of dark humour on her part where she thinks they might need Neville's Liver Tonic sooner rather than later... She immediately chastises herself for being too glib. She can't quite help it, though, it's a coping mechanism. 

But judging by the way he's sprawled on the floor in front of their couch... He's rat-arsed, off his head, and of course still doing incredibly poorly, having released himself from the Infirmary against Madam Pomfrey's advice. And _very_ vocal objections. 

Hermione happens to _know_ this because _she_ went to the Infirmary before lunch to check on him. Fine, and maybe to eat with him, were he willing. Or unable to object, she's not picky. Mind, she wasn't sure how that was going to go over now that he had regained consciousness, but it had seemed the thing to do. To that end, she'd kept a low profile and practically snuck in. It's really far easier to keep an eye on him when he's... unable to keep one from doing so, she supposes. 

She had looked suitably appalled that he should have left, it wasn't hard given the circumstances, which resonated nicely with how Madam Pomfrey felt about the matter. That in turn seemed to have triggered something within the Matron, and she went on at length about how he was _actually_ doing, what was _still_ wrong with him - the list was considerable, and the care he really _needed_ but would never receive at this rate.

"You asked why he has so many scars? Things like this are why! He scarpers before I'm finished with him, the incorrigible... _man_." Hermione couldn't quite decide if the Mediwitch had something more colourful or younger in tone in mind for the Professor. She certainly ranted about him like a misbehaving child. 

Had Hermione stopped by the Infirmary just a little later, once Severus' flowers arrived, no doubt Poppy would have been more kindly disposed towards him. But as things stood at just that moment...

Ever practical, Hermione had asked the Matron for a bunch of potions that he _should_ be taking, but probably _wouldn't_ by their assessments, and with her pockets full to bursting returns to chambers. The irony that those chambers belong to a _Potions Master_ escaped neither, nor the fact that _he_ brewed most if not all of what she now carries, but this way she has it, has access to it, and means to see that he _gets_ it. If at all possible. She really hasn't thought that part of it out. Worst case, perhaps she can enlist Sunny's help. 

The Professor is Occluding less in this state, but what comes through is only a muddle. First and foremost, it leaves her feeling... squiffy. He's in pain, angry, seems to feel betrayed... He's worried, possibly even scared... Thoroughly drunk and beyond _miserable_. He greets her with nothing but a disdainful look. It lasts awhile, but probably only because he's rather slowed at the present and fails to look away faster. She suspects it was meant to be dismissive, but it went on far too long for that. 

He's seated on the floor, his back against the couch, his right leg, the one towards her, bent and his right arm propped on his knee, his fist in turn supporting his forehead. The bottle and what remains of its contents is clutched in his left. His left leg is stretched in front of him towards the hearth. She can't help noticing just how long his legs are. 

She considers briefly how to handle this. She really hasn't any relevant experience to draw on. She decides this might make it easier to get him to take his potions, and so goes to join him instead of withdrawing to her room, which would clearly have been the more sensible option. She never once thinks it might be a very bad idea to approach a volatile man, essentially unknown to her, yet a known practitioner of dark magic, physically significantly larger and stronger, certainly magically far more versed, in _this_ state. That's not because she trusts the Protection Vow; she hasn't even thought of it. Fundamentally, she trusts _him_. 

She doesn't take the less obtrusive route, behind the couch. Instead she demonstratively makes her way to her chair by crossing quite obviously in front of him, stepping deliberately over his outstretched leg, and then settles in, somewhat conspicuously, on the floor in front of her chair perpendicular to him. This is the closest they've sat outside of the Infirmary. His body is still effectively turned towards where she's now seated, and he lacks the requisite coordination to quickly do something about it, so he leaves it be. It'd be almost cosy were he not... absolutely plastered. 

"Feeling all better then, Sir?" she chirps.

"Splendid. Ta." He sounds as wretched as the bond indicates he feels. He glares at her Gryffindor tie. Sensing his gaze, she begins to remove it as Crooks comes to lie in her lap. She completely mistakes the source of his displeasure as being primarily related to her House. 

He can't quite decide what to focus his animosity on first, his wife the _student_ in her oh so obvious student _uniform_ seated on the floor with him, or the _traitorous_ feline that abandoned him at the first chance it got. Oh so magnanimously, he alternates scowling at both. 

"I'm glad to hear it," she replies, stowing the offending bit of cloth. 

He nearly scoffs as she does so. As if her _House_ were the issue. Her _House_ hadn't kept him from loving Lily. He's not an idiot. Nothing that trivial, that _incidental_ would ever dictate his responses. It certainly hadn't _changed_ his feelings then.

No, no sadly it _hadn't_. It had merely made their situation impossible. Doomed from the start...  
  


The issue _now_ , of course, is that he's married to a woman he _doesn't_ love and she's a student to boot. _That_ is the issue. Her House is simply the icing on the cake... 

Actually, that's bollocks. _All_ of that taken together is really only a _very_ small part of the issue. 

No, if he's thinking about the problem here, he'd have to say it was the fact that his marriage had already nearly gotten him killed, which had been spectacularly painful - amongst other things - and was highly likely to _succeed_ in getting him killed in the near future. And _that_ at the cost of not achieving _any_ of the goals he's sacrificed _everything_ for all these years. Yes, _that_ sums it rather well. 

Not that it made the fact she's a student any better... 

He's biting the insides of his cheek as he sits there smouldering, trying to keep his thoughts to himself, successfully endeavouring to stifle any unfortunate comments on his part. For the moment. 

"You had us worried," she assures him, inexplicably smiling. 

Her assurances feel strangely sincere, which only wins her another glare. "To see to it that it stays that way, Madam Pomfrey has sent a few potions..." She is the _soul_ of friendliness. His world is hell.

"Meddling old gobermouch?" He demands. She resolves not to ask. To the best of her knowledge there is only one Madam Pomfrey in the castle. Presumably they mean the same woman. 

"Who seems to care a great deal about your well being. So what do you say we reward that with compliance?"

"Compliance? _Compliance_?" 'Hell' doesn't begin to describe his world. He _hates_ his life. "I have no wish to _comply_..." _Ever again_ , for that matter. _Compliance_ is what got him _into_ this mess, for fuck's sake. His scowl unfortunately bypasses terrifying completely and lands firmly at grumpy, with a hint of a pout. It's more than a little amusing, and just a trifle cute, but she senses neither reaction would be welcome. 

Not that it keeps that slight amusement from becoming clear across the bond. That undoubtedly helps the situation. 

Hermione, picking up on his looks at Crooks, misinterprets them. Naturally. Noticing the cat hairs now on his trousers, she draws her wand and casts the Charm she'd found yesterday to Vanish the fur and Impervious his clothes. She firmly resolves to herself to do the research she'd promised him on Banishing the fur. 

_He's_ simply angry that she had gotten to the fur before him. He should have done that when he felt her entering the wards. Doubtlessly he has the Ogden's to thank for that. He wonders how much fur is required to achieve the desired results with Crabbe, if he's already Banished enough to the boy's bed... 

Of course, instead of saying any of that, he complains, "And I don't require a nursemaid." _She_ thinks that is _exactly_ what he needs given the way he's acting, but wisely keeps that to herself, too. She's not always the most tactful person, but _sometimes_ she has a clue. 

Her disagreement, however, also telegraphs clearly enough, and in his current state, he's only marginally able to recognise that he should appreciate her restraint in not giving voice to the notion. It's not like she can help her thoughts... 

"That's certainly not required in addition to all the other manifold joys this bond provides," he mutters.

Unwisely, she prompts him. "Sir?" He's drunk and in a wretched mood. He's also at that stage where he's feeling sorry for himself. The answer was obvious. _They nearly fucking killed him last night_. He's only just crawled from the _Infirmary_ , and she has to _ask_? 

He doesn't answer with the obvious, firstly because it's, by definition, _obvious_ and secondly because it would feel too much like fishing for sympathy. Which he certainly doesn't need. And definitely not from _her_. If she can't see the glaringly obvious, _he_ most assuredly will _not_ be the one to point it out to her. 

So he swerves left, goes for the petulant and somewhat absurd. It's a questionable choice.

"Well no fucking sex for starters."  
  


She's gives herself a moment. It probably doesn't help matters that she is far too inclined to take things at face value. Celibacy wasn't exactly something either of them _wanted_ , but they had _discussed_ this. It hardly comes as a surprise. She's also unaccustomed to hearing such ordinary language from him. She senses this is supposed to distract from something more vital, but unfortunately doesn't follow that line of thought to its logical conclusion. Instead she decides to meet him as an equal; as tactics go, not an altogether poor one.

"As opposed to non-fucking sex then? How does that go?" She's completely unfazed, or does a good job mimicking it. 

He scoffs, unwilling to back down from a challenge and in no condition to consider the advisability, or lack of such, of the topic. "That would undoubtedly be by candlelight on a bed full of rose petals." He sneers, and then follows that ridiculously with a morose, "I hate roses."

"And their petals, too, presumably. Handholding, snuggling and petnames optional, one supposes? Or are they for afters?" And there's the amusement again... 

"Clearly." He huffs, _clearly_ answering _neither_ question, although they were rhetorical anyway, followed by a somewhat wistful sounding, "Bugger."

She has a brief moment of panic where she wonders, _extremely_ fleetingly, if he's trying to suggest that _they_ should... That is, any time _soonish_... Because as long as all her... friends are still at school... Well, that could be... awkward... Before she realises the bond had confirmed that he was _absolutely_ sincere about abstinence, never minding the whole _revulsion_ issue, and relaxes. He, on the other hand, feels her flash of panic, interprets it more or less correctly as luck would have it, and is in equal measures repulsed and enraged. 

"Are you _mad_? _That_ was the whole reason I was supposed to want to do _this_ ; the _only_ thing I was supposed to get out of it, to never be forced into something... _inappropriate_. Why on earth would I _wish_ to start with _you_?" That 'you' didn't sound much better than his 'boys' tends to.

It was certainly blunt. It's hard not to feel offended in the face of it, and she fails. "And once again, saying that just a _little_ less emphatically might be... considerate," she complains, and her feelings, whether he can understand it or not, are actually hurt.

"By what definition is that _considerate_? By all means, allow me to _objectify_ you. I should have thought you'd have had enough on that front..." 

That comes far too close to referencing what happened Friday for his comfort, and he _immediately_ wishes he hadn't said it. Too late. Which makes her reply all the more surprising. 

"Well, it's not like I look at _you_ and say 'not if you were the last wizard on the planet'..." Her brain works differently. "Or I'd rather with a Blast-Ended Skrewt..." Clearly.

His relief that he hasn't just carelessly inflicted another wound is palpable, and helps him pull himself together. A little anyway. He'll be more reasonable in the morning. He just needs her to give him some space to work through this. And he needs her out of harm's way while he does so. _That_ most _definitely_ includes his vicinity. 

Hell, the way he's feeling, she might be better off at the Manor. 

In her black bikini, even... 

He instantly berates himself for any and all possible overtones of that thought, not that's he's sure there were any at this point, but he should really try being less facetious, and tries to make her see sense. 

"Miss Granger, I have decidedly not had enough to drink for this conversation, and when I have, I most certainly shan't wish to continue it. If you could desist with this... I don't even know what this is. Just stop. Go."

"Shall I stop or go, Sir?" There's something about him so clearly disadvantaged that invites a spot of fun.

" _Leave_. To the library perhaps. Just go be elsewhere." His hand waves vaguely in the direction of the door, but it lacks conviction, and she hasn't managed to get him to take the potions yet and isn't going anywhere soon.

  



	76. 11 11p Tuesday - Self-Medicating 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hermione and Severus, Crooks_

They sit in silence for awhile. He's mentally enumerating an extensive list of wrongs the current situation has done him. He eventually drifts to older wrongs, the more the... merrier, called to mind by recent events, collecting injustices as he goes. _She's_ just trying to figure out how to get him to take the potions. Mostly she's coming up empty. Eventually her calm presence reaches something in him, and he just watches her for a span, until he surprises her with a question seemingly out of the blue. 

"How are you faring with the restrictions placed on you from speaking of what transpired Friday?" 

She's not quite sure what to respond. She also can't begin to guess how they got there. That's easy enough: he still feels somewhat guilty about his careless comment before - he suspects it may have been more than just the one, now that he's thinking it over - and is also considering a related experience of his own. When she doesn't answer, but somehow shrinks a little in front of his eyes, he feels he should say something reassuring, although he couldn't begin to explain why.

"My understanding of the situation is that you are restricted to communicating only with those aware of what occurred." She merely blinks. He decides to take that as confirmation of what he believes Albus had pressured her into, based on what he'd gleaned from her yesterday. "You should know that I have seen to it that Professor McGonagall is sufficiently aware, save regarding the identities of those involved, to be available to you for that purpose." That at least had been _one_ good thing to come of Minerva's... visit to the Infirmary Sunday evening. From having to share _those_ memories of Miss Granger... He pauses and then adds, "Obviously, I too know what occurred."  
  


It's awkward. _Of course_ he does... 

And then she decides she's got that all wrong, and that he has actually just _volunteered_ himself as a _sounding board_ , should she need it. Without saying as much. And made sure she had another, too. She looks at him appreciatively. "Thank you, Sir. That was very kind of you." 

Something in the bond lets him know she doesn't just mean his arranging to enable her to speak to Minerva. He nods in acknowledgment. 

More accurately, it's a series of shifting somethings. He can feel it - she's surprised, pleased, grateful, embarrassed, puzzled... Briefly, there's a growing satisfaction, he believes, as she works the puzzle out... Then she's even more surprised, more pleased, more grateful... The bond doesn't convey thoughts, but the sequence of emotional responses and their timings seems to do the job quite nicely. That's assuming one reads the emotions correctly, and draws the right conclusions as to their sources. Given their disparate personalities and histories, that's not nearly as easy and certainly not as effective as either of them are still inclined to think. 

They'll learn.  
  


"Have there been further problems with... your friends as a result?" 

If the last question was _unexpected_ , she utterly lacks the terms to describe _this_. She's unsure what to say to that. The honest answer is an overwhelming 'yes', but she can't imagine he wishes to discuss Harry and Ron or her little problems considering what he's been through in the past twenty-four hours, never mind the past few days. The very notion seems ludicrous. She hesitates and chews her lip instead of answering.

He interprets this correctly, too, and has sufficient experience to have a fair idea of what she could be facing. His drunken trip, somewhat of a stagger really, down memory lane this afternoon had called a few problems all too clearly to mind. Wishing to spare her some of his own ordeals, _possibly_ because the bond will subject him to them too, he tries to repeat his offer from the library yesterday, hoping _today_ she'll prove more receptive to the... _intent_ of his message. He wonders when he became so... optimistic.

"If you require me to make certain... _facts_ clear to them, I am willing to assist. It remains _entirely_ up to you how much you'd like for me to tell them, _what_ you'd like for them to know. The decision is yours, absolutely, but that should provide you with the basis required to be able to speak freely." 

Her eyes go wide in surprise and again he can feel her gratitude. It's certainly an improvement on yesterday when she'd leapt to conclusions. Encouraged, he continues their rather odd one-sided conversation. For all its one-sidedness, they're getting a lot across.

Not for the first time in the last few days, he finds himself once again considering if the secret to getting along with students is for them to speak virtually not at all. Or _wives_ , for that matter, he can't help adding wryly. 

"You shouldn't underestimate the harm it can do to a relationship when your friends are unable to understand what you've been through. Additionally, keeping things bottled up isn't always... advisable." And _that_ from the man who Occludes all the time. Well then he should know. "Keeping the _victim_ from speaking about such things is a very... questionable approach. But the Headmaster seems to favour it."

She understands a little, she thinks. "When Harry attacked Malfoy?"

"That would be one instance. There have been others." The bitterness in his voice has her looking at him very closely now. "That has the rather inopportune side effect of allowing the perpetrators to control the narrative of events."

"Which is why you silenced Malfoy on that front?"

"In part," he nods.

"Generally, that solution is applied to the benefit of Gryffindors at the expense of a Slytherin." There's no mistaking the hurt and anger flickering from him across their bond. "That makes your experience rather unique, I'm afraid." 

He seems to be truly sorry for her, and she's glad he doesn't think this was only fair given the anger he was feeling immediately before. But she's quite certain: he _doesn't_ feel this solution is _at all_ acceptable. She's inclined to agree, despite understanding the reasons for it. It is fundamentally... unsatisfactory.

"Did Malfoy speak to you at all about what happened? With Harry?" She rushes to add, realising that might have been unclear and not wishing to hear of any other conversation they might have had. Certainly none since Friday.

"He did not. And sadly I didn't pursue it. Perhaps I should have. If he had... If _we_ had spoken, perhaps it would not have festered and things would never have... escalated as they did. It is conceivable... Friday could have been averted." His voice is low, and like _that_ he suddenly understands where some of his feelings of guilt come from regarding the young witch seated... next to him. How did she get so close?

"How about I promise not to run amok? Or if things seem about to... 'escalate', I promise to seek you out first?" She jokes a little trying to lighten his mood. She is positive: he has nothing to feel guilty about with respect to Friday, quite the contrary, but she knows that's something she can't convince him of just by saying so. He'll need to come to believe it on his own. Or not at all.

"As your first victim, or looking for another wand at your side?" He's actually serious. Another possibility doesn't occur to him, despite having himself more or less suggested she could speak to him should she wish.

"Actually, I _had_ thought just to _talk_ to you first, but enlisting your assistance is a far better suggestion. Cheers." She winks. She actually winks. She's absurd. And serious. And he has no idea why she wouldn't speak to Minerva instead. He decides the answer lies in his proximity. 

Of course he does.

* * *

  


He's still chewing that over, ruminating, so to speak, when she now surprises _him_. It transpires that there are advantages to being sober. "Whom else did he do that to?" For a moment he conjectures that she thinks Draco's a serial... "The Headmaster?" Well, _he_ most assuredly _is_ a serial offender. And as much as Severus would like to, he can't give her the answer she's probably seeking. 

"Graham Montague, for one," he answers instead. "There have been others. You may recall hearing of an incident with a cabinet, Montague, and the Weasley twins. The boy Apparated himself out of there, only just, how he survived is anyone's guess, especially given Hogwart's wards against Apparition. He couldn't take his N.E.W.T.s that year, had to be home schooled thereafter. To the best of my knowledge, a year and a half later, he _still_ hasn't recovered." 

She goes quiet as she remembers seeing Montague being spoon fed in the Infirmary. She can also recall thinking she should tell Madam Pomfrey what had happened to the young man, so the Matron could better treat him, and had allowed... friends of hers to persuade her not to, against her better judgment. She still feels guilty about that. But if the Professor knows of the circumstances that caused it, perhaps _he_ had gotten the information to the Mediwitch... Unfortunately, it doesn't seem to have helped. She hopes that wasn't because that information had been delayed.  
  


As a matter of fact, Montague's treatment had been _greatly_ impacted as Poppy hadn't had the hint of a clue what to treat the boy for. Apparition _isn't_ possible on school grounds, so unfortunately, if quite logically, that had been thoroughly ruled out as a cause for his injuries from the outset. Much of what followed proved more detrimental than beneficial, and palliative at best.

Severus had prowled the castle applying casual Legilimency to the usual suspects, only narrowly avoiding Dolores' watchful eye while doing so - Merlin help them if she had ever discovered what he was capable of doing; it would have put an end to her easily deflected calls for Veritaserum and thoroughly blown his cover, like as not. He'd kept at it until he found the guilty parties. Not that they had felt particularly guilty, of course. 

The only thing that had kept him from demanding their hides had been the fact that he wasn't willing to turn even the Weasleys over to Umbridge. With her, there was a far too real chance she _might_ have tanned them. Literally. But once she was gone and Albus regained control of the school, there still had been no justice for Graham. 

_When is there ever for the Snakes?_ He muses sullenly... That is until he catches himself and immediately thinks he's an unmitigated _arse_ of the very first order and that Miss Granger has certainly been far more poorly done by than he _ever_ was and regrets the line of thought thoroughly and completely. Without reservation. And then he rebukes himself some more. 

And _this_ is why he never drinks this much in the company of others. He can't decide which is worse, his inclination towards the maudlin or the cognitive hiccoughs. Both are frankly embarrassing. He's only lucky he had kept his mouth shut this time...  
  


Hermione, blissfully unaware of any such hiccoughs, sits there mulling over various parties' respective guilt in the Montague matter for a while before recalling something the Professor just repeated. _'There had been others...'_ She's had a few indications of that, and she'd very much like to learn more. There's something... niggling in the back of her mind, and she can't quite reach it... She also remembers the Headmaster's strange response when she briefed him Friday, that he imagined Professor Snape wasn't pleased to have had to force Malfoy to take an Oath to keep silent about the attack. As the Professor seems inclined to answer, she decides to ask, "Anyone else I know, Sir?" 

He has an idea what she's after, but can no more answer than she could if Potter were to ask her about Friday. Evading once again, he really hasn't much choice, he replies, "The same year as Montague, that same spring, in fact, both Warrington and Miss Parkinson were hit with Hexes that have left their marks until the present day. I'll warrant you've never heard either make mention of the precipitating episodes."

Hermione's right hand reflexively goes to rub the scar that runs diagonally across her chest. She'd received it that spring, too. It pulls sometimes, probably most of the time, and genuinely _hurts_ on occasion, but it's more noticeable obviously when she thinks about it. That is to say, when she's not actively ignoring it.

Crooks, well aware of what she's doing and why, butts his head against her arm a few times to distract her until she stops fretting about the scar and shifts her focus to him. She gives him a grateful smile and starts scratching his ears instead. Clearly a better use of her hands and time, he is sure. 

But Hermione knows a thing or two about Hexes and Curses that leave their mark, beyond _Harry's_ scar that is. Not as much as the man sitting next to her, naturally, she can't help thinking as her eyes dart towards him, feeling a little guilty that she should consider _her_ scar in any way _significant_ after what she'd seen of his... 

Typically she misses that _his_ plethora of scars in no way makes _hers_ disappear, or irrelevant, or even hurt less. But then just as typically, Severus had missed that her treatment at the hands and wands of his seventh years in no way diminished what he had endured with the Marauders or his right to feel maltreated by them - _or_ the Headmaster for that matter. Or that he'd neglected to consider the effects of _protracted_ abuse, _years_ of apprehension contrasted with a single incident. Objectively, he might actually have fared worse, but he can't see that at all right now. 

They're both in very good company. 

There's an unfortunate consequence to the concessions they're making. When they begin to sense that they haven't been entirely fair to themselves, it's all too easy to become resentful, to forget no one _asked_ this of them. Few in that moment understand the situation is a construct of their own. Often that resentment is directed at the innocent other party. They'll be lucky if they can avert it.  
  


"No one else?" Hermione presses, determined to get her answer. 

"Before your time? Certainly," he prevaricates again. 

Her eyes narrow, spotting the flaw. She's like a Crup with a Mooncalf thigh bone. She won't give up. "No one I'd _know_?" She digs again. 

But this time, his lips form a tight line, and he remains silent. And decidedly displeased.

Fortunately, she's bright. And unfortunately, she's been subjected to the same Oath and recognises the symptoms. Or perhaps calling them _indications_ is more accurate. It requires an open mind and a watchful eye. "Have you been on the receiving end of such an Oath?" More silence.

"As a student, or as an employee?"

"I have not had occasion to take... _such_ an Oath as an employee."

This reminds her of a childhood game she played with her parents on holiday. Twenty questions. She was remarkably good at it. She still should be. "So as a student then..." His mouth tightens once more. 

She's perfectly aware that by not saying _anything_ , he could be suggesting things that never happened and hoping to subvert what the bond might convey. And yet she's quite certain he is not. The bond reveals a wariness on his part, coupled with sincerity, frustration and eagerness. And surprise, she suspects, that she continues to pursue this. He may have dangled a lure, but she's the one in hot pursuit. Was that predictable... ? Probably. To some extent, and yet she's sure she's correct and not being manipulated. 

She knows of only a few contemporaries of his from his school days. From what he's said, she assumes the relevant parties would be Gryffindors, and with those few she can name, she also knows there to be a good deal of animosity between some of them and the Professor. It would seem to indicate she's on the right track. 

Somehow she very much doubts the _Longbottoms_ were the problem.  
  


_'That has the rather inopportune side effect of allowing the perpetrators to control the narrative of events.'_

"Sir, third year, when you discovered us in the Shrieking Shack with Professor Lupin and Sirius Black, Remus," Severus flinches minutely at her casual use of Lupin's first name, Hermione mistakenly assumes it's at the memory of that evening or the events referenced, "mentioned an incident between you and them, underneath the Whomping Willow..." His lips are now pressed together so tightly as to be practically bloodless.

"What do you recall of his... story?" He finally asks her when the constriction of his Oath eases. Half of that is probably worry it will trigger at this point. 

"Sirius," Severus flinches again, more visibly this time, and Hermione begins to speculate about it, "had - in Remus' words - played some kind of 'prank' on you that had nearly proved deadly. He sent you off after Remus under the Willow while he was in his werewolf form and Harry's father caught wind of it and risked his life to save you." 

It's Severus' turn to narrow his eyes, but it's nowhere near as benign as Hermione's expression had been. There's little point in schooling his features - the bond betrays his hatred and fury clearly enough, despite Occluding - and yet he succeeds by and large. Watching him closely, Hermione suspects a great deal normally goes hidden there.  
  


It had been bad enough all those years ago to hear _Lily_ claim Potter had heroically saved him. To have to hear his _wife_ do so... The way she refers to those _men_ by their first names, as though they were _friends_... And then with a start, he uncomfortably realises that of course they _were_. His blushing bride had been friends with _both_ of the Marauders. His stomach rebels at the thought. 

He's reasonably certain it isn't the Ogden's at any rate.

Even Lily had had the good sense to recognise they were arrogant tossers. Well, before she took complete leave of her senses anyway. He tries to allow for the difference it might make to meet them as adults... Lupin, at least, was slightly improved, away from the company of his highly dubious cohorts. But the mutt? For _fuck's_ sake. 

He's not jealous of Miss Granger's affections. Almost certainly not. Well, probably not. Inexplicably his eyes tick to the cat. But he has this sense, a firm conviction that _his_ wife, his _wife_ shouldn't find _anything_ heroic in the actions of the worthless _tosspots_ who had tried to _kill_ him as a boy. 

Merlin, he'd been so young, he hadn't even taken his O.W.L.s yet...

It triggers something visceral in him and he almost growls. It takes him several moments to get his feelings back under control. Yet another reason not to drink to excess...

When he finally speaks, the words are slightly bitten off, but surprisingly even more neutral than his expression. "I'm afraid I have nothing to add to that." And yet his obsidian eyes speak volumes. 

"I also seem to recall there was mention of the Headmaster forbidding you to tell anyone," Hermione adds. Again his lips squeeze together so hard they begin to lose colour, his face becomes a mask, but those eyes... And the things coming across the bond... Hermione doubts if the reaction would have been stronger had she _Cursed_ him. 

"It's my belief that Professor Dumbledore subjected you to an Oath similar to the one he had me take," she states. Severus tests the Oath and finds he can nod. The movement is jerky. 

"Were one to believe the story told, as the 'narrative of events' goes, James Potter rescued you." This time not even his eyes give him away, but it doesn't matter because the bond does. 

He's Occluding, _fiercely_ , and there's a deep _nothing_ there. _Cavernous_. That change in itself is highly revealing, obviously, but right at the very edges of that abyss, there are hints, flickers, traces of emotion. And Hermione is far more sensitive to that than Severus has ever been. He'd be appalled to know she can feel _anything_ from him _at all_ despite his Occlumency, and probably never touch a drop of alcohol again. Unfortunately, that has nothing whatsoever to do with why she can still feel him. Bonds are powerful things.  
  


She's poking at a very old wound, one that's never truly healed. 

How could it? He hadn't let it. 

But that was understandable. He didn't have the tools for it, and the loss had been great. Ultimately the events of that evening had cost him his dearest friend. And as for the others... There'd never been apologies. On the contrary, there'd been jokes, mocking laughter, and a _thorough_ disregard for his life, even by the fucking Headmaster himself. The people who were at _fault_ were lauded as _heroes_... He may be conflating Potter and Black there, but then they'd attacked as one so often... 

And _he_... 

As the _entire_ school saw it - Merlin knows the Marauders had shouted it from the towers - Severus was an 'ungrateful git', so bitter over their years long rivalry, that he hadn't possessed the good grace to be _thankful_ to the boy who had 'risked his life' for him. When Potter had then been made Head Boy off the back of it... Never mind that he hadn't even been deemed suitable to be a Prefect before then... He _wasn't_ suitable to be a Prefect, and most _definitely_ not the Head Boy. He was nothing but a malevolent _bully_ and Severus had thought that appointment had been the final indignity. 

And then Lily _married_ him.  
  


Severus believed at the time that Potter had taken the gamble solely because he'd been trying to protect his friends. Lupin and Black both would have most likely ended in Azkaban had anything happened to Severus. And even had he - improbably - _not_ been injured, Black _might_ have escaped punishment, but there were almost definitely going to be serious consequences for Lupin. 

Expulsion was the least of them. 

Every now and again, Severus consoles himself that it had all contributed to Black's eventual - _wrongful_ \- imprisonment for the Potters' murders. It's probably the _only_ consolation to be found in those events, but he'll take what he gets. He believes there's a slight, but pleasing, irony there that Black's shockingly callous conduct with respect to Lupin's secret had probably been _precisely_ what enabled Albus to believe he'd betrayed Lily and Potter. In the end, Black's actions that night _had_ landed him in Azkaban, just for the wrong crime.  
  


Severus still holds saving _Black and Lupin_ from punishment for the motivation for the 'rescue', only _now_ he greatly discounts the 'risk'. He has done since that night in the Shack three and a half years ago when he'd learnt the Marauders were Animagi. Worse, he finds himself wondering if Albus had known... He reassures himself - quite often, and that frequency should clearly tell him how betrayed he still feels - _had_ Albus known, he'd have taken different precautions against Black that year. No, surely Albus couldn't have known...

But then why _didn't_ he know? Why _hadn't_ he performed Legilimency on Potter or Black that night? Why had Albus been so eager to position Potter as the hero, and silence a severely traumatised boy, almost completely on his own in the world, just to prop the bloody Gryffindors?

There was most likely a substantial component of covering his own hoary arse that had encouraged Albus to handle things as he had. Had word gotten out, parents would have been baying for his blood. Certainly for him to be ousted from his seat as Headmaster. To have allowed a werewolf on campus and been so slipshod about the protections surrounding him... 

And then to hear how casually the Marauders had placed others in peril over the years. And _these_ were the much touted _heroes_... Lupin should have known better than anyone what a burden Lycanthropy is to carry, and yet he'd been completely indifferent to the widespread exposure to that threat their little 'adventures' had caused. Time and again, _monthly_ , he'd _chosen_ to endanger others just so he could have his... _fun_. Their reckless disregard for other's safety... 

Just thinking about them makes Severus' blood boil.  
  


And then Miss Granger shakes him out of his reverie and begins to surprise him some more. "If I recall correctly, Animagi are not in any danger from werewolves in their transfigured forms. At least not of being _turned_. Correct?"

He nods. Unexpectedly, he feels just a little... hopeful. 

"I suppose those are things we might have learnt had we covered werewolves for any longer than just that one lesson you taught..." She half complains as an aside. He almost snorts in response and feels just a little... vindicated. 

"What year did the Marauders gain the ability to transform?" She's thinking out loud. He begins to smirk. 

"As Lupin told it, apparently in their fifth," he supplies. They were both there when he'd admitted as much in the Shack.

"Yes. Yes, he did say something like that. Was that, purely by coincidence, the same year that Sirius Black played his... little 'joke' on you?" Again Severus is silent, but sweat appears on his brow.

Hermione nods. 

She's tenaciously exploring around the boundaries of his Oath, in much the same way she wishes her friends would explore _hers_ , not that she consciously recognises it. That desire is lending this quest for information an importance it probably wouldn't have taken on by itself. But if she pursues it, if she can get behind the events of that evening and the limits the Headmaster had placed on the Professor... Well, then she's living proof it can be done. 

And her friends are rubbish. 

If she comes to understand her bondmate better in the process, that seems only... fitting. 

"I gather you were aware of Remus' condition as a student, but didn't tell others of it." He tries and finds he can nod. She continues, "But you were able to do so at the end of the year he instructed here." 

"I never denied it." It sounds a little defensive. She can imagine why. 

She's still trying to plumb the depths of the Oath, "But I suspect if the Oath requiring you not to mention something you feel so... strongly about..." She looks at him, unsure, not wanting to trivialise his ordeal, but seeing no objection... And then she checks the bond and realises he doesn't seem to mind at all, and continues, "...expired, say on graduation, you'd have made mention of it at the earliest possible moment..."

He tilts his head, considering, greatly encouraged by her willingness to question Potter's supposed 'heroics'. Drunk, the body language comes across a little softer and slower than he usually does, and something about the posture, that head tilt, reminds her of Luna. Hermione will keep that to herself. 

"Perhaps not at the _earliest_ opportunity if the conditions or the terms had changed," he suggests. He reflects again and finds permissible words. " _Had_ there been such an Oath, prohibiting me from... speaking of Lupin's... condition as a student, it would have been very strange, far too noticeable, for it to remain in effect once he joined staff and the other faculty were aware of his condition. Particularly were I expected to brew the Wolfsbane Potion for him. Presumably faculty might have wished to approach me with their concerns, their questions. I should think at the latest then, that portion of any Oath would have had to have been lifted."

"And yet you didn't reveal his secret until the end of the year?"

"You are aware, Miss Granger, that Lupin and I are _both_ members of the Order..." _That's_ accompanied by a sardonic eyebrow lift that she can't picture on Luna's face at all. She _almost_ doesn't smirk; he can't begin to understand her amusement. 

"Of course, Sir. I never questioned your loyalty." 

Severus turns that over in his mind a few times and eventually has to accept she means it. And then he has to admit it's kind of... nice. It leaves him wanting to justify himself, his actions in exposing Lupin that year. "When he jeopardised others by not taking the Potion..." He begins, but then trails off with a shrug. He's faced reproach for that before. Oddly, no one seems to feel the need to blame Lupin for anything that occurred that evening, he's always the poor victim after all. Severus isn't sure why he bothered trying to explain this time.

Which is when Miss Granger _really_ surprises him. "No, of course that wasn't acceptable. He knows the hazards, the _consequences_ of infection better than any of us. When he didn't take his Potion that night, when he _imperilled_ us, you... _again_..." It starts with her explicit inclusion of _him_ in her 'us'. That's highly unusual. But the _'again'_... that's probably the moment he decides she's... tolerable. 

"I was sorry to see Remus go," she says with a shake of her head, "but I didn't disagree with the _necessity_ for it in the least. His carelessness was _incredibly_ dangerous, and he proved he hadn't really learnt a thing for all his talk of guilt over his recklessness, his _thoughtlessness_ as a boy." There's something hard about her features, and her head is still shaking, but it's clearly in disapproval now. A little facetiously, Severus considers a marriage proposal for that alone and then of course that it's no longer necessary. 

_There_ sits _his wife_. Tolerable indeed.  
  


Hermione should leave it at that, but doesn't. She's on a mission after all. 

She fails to recognise that Severus seems... unusually tranquil, and persists with her questions. She means to find out what happened under the Willow that night. 

She's failing to comprehend that in the final analysis, not all that much _had_. Certainly not in that tunnel. He'd been injured in escaping from the werewolf, but it was nothing Madam Pomfrey hadn't quickly set to rights. No, his issues from that evening were the very legitimate fear he'd be turned or killed (he's never forgotten the snapping of the werewolf's jaws), that someone had deliberately, _callously_ sent him to what should reasonably have been his death, that _those_ people involved were _protected_ and in part presented as _heroes_ after the fact, and that the authorities hadn't sought justice for _him_. No, Albus had buried the truth as deeply as he could. Except Severus can't tell her any of this. 

Then there was the damage it did to his friendship with Lily. He probably _could_ tell Miss Granger about most of that. But he'd prefer to swallow poison.  
  


She asks question after question, becoming increasingly more frustrated. If she gave it some thought, she could probably work out what most of the problems were, she has enough facts. She resolutely _doesn't_ go there, concentrating on the as yet unknown details, as though they'd make any real difference. 

Ironically, she doesn't see the parallel between that and what Harry is doing with her. As if all the _facts_ were required to _empathise_. It's possible she senses how closely some of the Professor's experience mirrors bits of what will eventually become her issues with what happened to her Friday evening - not that anything really happened, because it didn't - once her feelings settle some. But she's not ready for that yet. 

Not by a long shot. 

The more she turns in circles, the more amused Severus becomes. She's better positioned to understand the intricacies of such Oaths than anyone who has ever spoken with him of the events of that evening, and yet she obstinately keeps hammering away. Were he sober, it would probably be annoying. Right at the moment, however, it's frightfully amusing.  
  


When she finally accepts that her questions will get her no further she turns to him in frustration and demands, "How are we supposed to communicate if you can't speak?"

That gets her an answer, not that it's remotely satisfactory. Still feeling generous in his good humour, he ignores the ridiculousness of the notion they should need or wish to _communicate_ , and with a wave of one of those long fingered hands magnanimously replies, "Perhaps not everything needs to be said."

"And yet it _matters_ to you..." He has no idea how to respond and so doesn't. _Many_ things matter to him. Greatly. He hasn't felt the need to confide _any_ of them in _anyone_ in so long... He honestly can't remember that as an impulse. She finally registers his confusion as he mulls that over, the bond is quite helpful really, she gets a touch of clue and asks, "Would you have told me if you could?"

And that yields a substantial answer, "No, of course not." Her utter bewilderment draws a huff of laughter from him and he expands on it, "The whole reason the Oath bothers me is I _can't_ speak about it. _That's_ the point. If I _could_ , it would hardly matter anymore. Half of the Marauders are dead. The other half have scarcely come to a good end." His mood is light enough that refrains from adding a characteristically distancing _'and why would he want to tell her anyway?'_ It's just as well. 

She complains, "But I've taken a _Loyalty Vow_ , for goodness sake. Surely that must make some difference." He simply shrugs, trying to judge her annoyance by the volume of her hair.

Unplacated, she continues, "But what's the point of leaving the Oath in place _now_? Why does the Headmaster do it?" It gets her another shrug. She has visions of herself ending like this and doesn't care for it at all. That only makes her more doggedly determined. 

"This is ridiculous. You're telling me it doesn't change a _thing_ that I've taken that... _Vow_?" He wonders fleetingly which adjective she swallowed, before he decides she has a point. _That's_ worth testing. He's not drunk enough to miss the opportunity, and so he struggles to tell her how Potter had dragged him through the tunnel.

"Pot... Po... He..." He finally shakes his head. "It would appear not."

"But I _know_ what happened," she objects. 

In as much as she _doesn't_ know precisely those details she seems so eager to pursue, that seems a strange assertion. He cocks a brow at her again, sanguinely enquiring, "So what happened?" 

"Well, I have an idea..." She revises her claim. 

His smirk is reasonably gentle as he lounges there in front of the couch. "I'm sure you do."

"But we're bonded for Merlin's sake. This is absurd."

"Feel free to tell that to Albus," he suggests sagely. 

"Give me the password to his office and I will."

He laughs. He thinks she means it. Her hair is thoroughly wild and certainly gives silent testimony to her state of agitation. 

Naturally she takes his laughter the wrong way. Her pride a little wounded, she insists, "I _mean_ it. Give it to me and I'll go talk to him about it." 

He's smirking broadly now, and she's beginning to wonder if that mightn't be his version of a grin. "Please, be my guest. 'Jaffacakes'. And by all means, _do_ give the Headmaster a piece of that much vaunted mind of yours for me." He practically chuckles, and she glares at him at that, and his smirk-grin transforms and almost becomes something she can actually objectively recognize as a... smile. It suits him, transforming his face, particularly his eyes unexpectedly enough, but she's in no mood to come around. Still, she's taking mental notes on how his emotions present, sufficiently pragmatic of inclination to have decided to make the best of their situation. But he's sensed her displeasure, and although too slow to acknowledge that it has passed, or at least shifted, he is reasonably quick to dispel any confusion. 

"I wasn't being facetious, Miss Granger. I would sincerely welcome it if as much as possible of your frustration and displeasure with our mutual... _inconvenience_ could be directed at the instrument thereof and not at _my person_. It would go a long way to easing our forced interactions, if you would be so kind as to perhaps recognize that I am _just_ as much a victim of these circumstances. Or perhaps to an even _greater degree_ , depending on how you prioritize the sacrifices required. 

"Although I appreciate our prioritization may differ..." he adds sotto voce. 

He feels her flash of anger again, perhaps he tormented her too long, he should have shut her down gently _earlier_ , and with some hurt, she grits out, "I wasn't under any illusions that you welcomed our bonding. You made your utter _revulsion_ at being bonded to me more than abundantly clear."  
  


He wonders when they changed subjects. He must have missed it, and then he decides he probably did it. Possibly inadvertently, he's not sure. But her anger he can understand; who would wish to be forced into a marriage absent of love, with a person only marginally tolerated, crowned with the promise of a life of celibacy? Lovely. Still, clearly preferable to conjugation between them, small favours, but ultimately a thoroughly undesirable constellation. 

And as unappealing as that was to _him_ , _he_ hadn't any great plans or expectations for _his_ future. In fact, he is quite convinced he has no future worth the mention, so this is just another temporary inconvenience and of little consequence. He is certain those aspects are a great deal more disappointing for _her_. Surely she had a young woman's foolish dreams of love and happiness and must feel them all dashed. _Ruined_ , and _he's_ the reason for it. Splendid. 

His own good humour has now evaporated, responding in part to what he can feel of her own mood whether either of them realises it or not. 

In all honesty, he isn't certain he can muster _much_ pity for her, as this idiotic binding has already put him, inarguably, at considerable risk. But he _is_ capable of _understanding_ her, at least a little, and that should go some way to making their... arrangement more... workable. And it needs to be _far_ more workable if he is to function. This _will_ get him killed yet, damn Dumbledore and his meddling.

What really puzzles him is the hurt he continues to feel in her response. No, that's not quite correct. Hurt at rejection makes sense to him. Some sense. Perfect sense. No, _some_ sense was right. But in his experience _hurt_ tends to be in some proportion to the _desire for acceptance_ ; in the absence of such a desire, he would expect to find anger, possibly indignation. And it's the _disappointment_ coupled with her hurt that he finds absolutely baffling. 

Why on earth is she _disappointed_?

He decides, having slowly exceeded the limits of his interest in her inner landscape, that that can be reduced to the dashing of her asinine romantic dreams for the future, but he feels he is doing her a disservice even as he thinks that. Fortunately, that bothers him relatively little at the moment. In fact, probably _more so_ now than otherwise. He'd never have had any patience for this bit of drama were he not completely snockered. _'Chit can consider herself lucky,'_ he decides.  
  


He's taken too long to consider a response, and suddenly she's continuing, "I also appreciate that while I have gained a measure of privacy through this arrangement, you have been robbed of yours. I promise I'll make every effort to minimize my intrusions on your routine." He wonders how long _that_ will last. 

Of course, when she does just that in the days to come, generally leaving the main room when he enters, keeping to her room for the most part and often avoiding him, he will misread that as fear, or perhaps dislike of him and certainly for their bonding. He also completely misinterprets her shame. She's unhappy, _mortified_ that he's been forced to do this for her, and at what price, and he stubbornly will continue to think she finds being bonded to him humiliating, which he just as stubbornly tries to ignore. Naturally, it doesn't help his mood one iota.  
  


All considered, she's not mistaken about the loss of privacy, _per se_ , but she's clearly got the wrong end of the wand as a whole. His inhibitions sufficiently lubricated to be conducive to this manner of interaction, and atypically not wanting to contribute to her self doubt ('And where to blazes did that bit of empathy come from?' he muses), he _does_ choose to clarify a few things. "I can assure you, Miss Granger, that that 'revulsion' was in no way directed towards _you_ or the bonding with you _personally_. _Anyone_ so chosen for _such_ purpose," his voice, that marvelous voice positively drips disdain, "would have caused a similar response on my part." 

She relaxes visibly, and he manages to both scoff at the ease with which that response was achieved coupled with her lack of ability to disguise it, while on some level appreciating that at least it won't demand further effort on his part. So he continues with his explanation, "The sacrifices to which I was referring were less a _trivial_ , although regrettable, invasion of privacy and more the _serious bodily harm_ and enthusiastic round of _torture_ this generated." 

She immediately looks suitably abashed, and he feels sufficiently gratified. He suspects he could discover great sport in this sort of exchange, and that it might provide some compensation for the multitude of drawbacks he'll be unable to escape. _There has to be something in it for him..._

"Of the people currently being... paired, or likely to be, in an effort to provide some measure of increased... safety," and there's that disdain again, "for the individuals involved, _you_ are probably the least objectionable... _by far_." It's completely true, although he _is_ a bit startled to hear himself admitting it. Her relief upon hearing it, not unexpected except in its degree, immediately alleviates any lingering doubts he may have about revealing these thoughts. But her _pleasure_... Well, that's quite surprising. That seems to be happening a lot today. 

He'll need to think about this when he's master of himself again. 

He scoffs at that. _As though he were ever his own master..._ Of course when he does consider it again later, he'll be no more likely to understand her reaction, it is so far removed from feelings with which he is familiar.

Realistically, he's pissed. Sloshed. Plastered. Completely _legless_. But even still, or perhaps for exactly that reason, he is capable of recognising that there are advantages to be found both in the bond's betrayal of her innermost emotional responses and her compulsion to force the discussion of many of those issues. Actually, he is certain he hates that last bit and would be beyond irritated were he sober. But he's not, and the edge is off, and on some level he truly understands that were she a fellow Slytherin, she'd have kept that bit of hurt, all a misunderstanding, to herself and would have proceeded to work against him where she could. It would have unnecessarily made their situation... worse.

This was definitely... _better_.  
  


He's not sure what to make of that. 

Somehow in the process, he completely misses that her willingness to address her fears means _they're_ now dispelled. Unlike his own.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And you all have LostAngelSoul to thank for this chapter... 
> 
> HAPPY BIRTHDAY! :-D
> 
> xox Ginger


	77. 11 11q Tuesday - Self-Medicating 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hermione and Severus, Crooks_

Hermione's in a much better frame of mind. It really is that simple with her. The Professor seems a little grumpy and confused again, and she feels somewhat responsible, naturally, because he'd been in a much better mood before she kept peppering him with questions. Belatedly she thinks she should have quit while they were ahead. Feeling she owes him somehow, she casts about for something... appeasing. 

"I wasn't trying to antagonise you..." There's no sign of any recognition about him, so she further prompts, "With my uniform..." Her hand goes to her throat, miming the fixing of her tie.

He looks even more confused now, but less grumpy. She takes that as a win. Hermione really doesn't need all that much encouragement to run with something. 

"I can make it a point not to wear my tie in quarters?" She offers her olive branch with a friendly smile. He tests the bond for other aspects and... nothing. It's... uncomplicated. And truly is... _friendly_. Hopeful. _Sincere_. It draws a huff of laughter from him as he accepts it. 

"I can assure you, your tie is hardly the problem." She's biting her lip again. There are two options, he suspects, that she could be concerned about - herself and her House, and he'd only just reassured her as to the first. He fervently hopes that was sufficient; he doesn't think he's capable of more. "Nor is your House," he states firmly, and _there_. She stops masticating her poor lip. It's stunning how easy that is. Which again has him continuing, "It's the uniform _as such_ that's objectionable, and the _requirement_ for it. I believe I've made my feelings about being bonded to a student clear. The reminder of your status doesn't... help."

She practically leaps up - the feline lets out a startled 'Mrowr' of indignation as it's knocked from her lap, that seems to be becoming a thing - and she disappears into her room leaving the door open wide behind her. 

He and the cat exchange bewildered glances, he's half wondering if he insulted her, which he may well have done, but she doesn't feel... He has no idea what that is. But it doesn't feel... unpleasant. It feels... energised. Purposeful. Determined... 

Strange...

Miss Granger's voice soon comes floating out from her room. "I won't be next year," she unnecessarily assures him. The chances she won't pass her N.E.W.T.s, always assuming they're even offered, are non-existent. Of course, he doesn't particularly fancy _his own_ chances of surviving long enough to see it. He sighs. 

"That makes all the difference, I'm sure," he replies with just a hint of sarcasm. It's a stupid reply, as it certainly makes a substantial difference to _him_ , but he can't resist the bit of snark. 

"You should have said something," she tells him. Severus is quite sure he's said everything imaginable, half of it twice, he is _certain_ , but doesn't ask 'about what'. 

The cat shakes off its disruption and stalks over to him. "Don't even think about it," he tells it quietly. Fickle creature. He wants no part of it. That doesn't seem to faze the animal in the least, and soon it makes itself comfortable next to his leg again. He makes a few disparaging comments (tatty, mangey, pansy faced, faithless feline, although that last seems redundant, effectively a tautology), the creature ignores him, it's probably for the best, and it's not long before he's back to petting the beast. Grudgingly. 

"We can make quarters a uniform free zone," she suggests next.

And suddenly his attention is drawn to Miss Granger's room when he notices _clothing_ sailing back and forth in front of the door. She's apparently withdrawn to her bathroom to change and saw no need to interrupt their... conversation. He finds that _highly_ perturbing, but can't quite articulate why. She's not _visible_ , and yet... The fact they're conversing is strange enough. Doing so while she changes... surpasses bizarre. 

He sits there staring at her doorway. Perplexed.  
  


So much so, he's startled when she continues, "Are the wards stronger when you're here?" She's wondering, sort of hoping, that's why they feel... _better_ now. 

He somehow takes offence at that. Naturally. "No, because the point is to have you _protected_ whether I'm here or not." _Obviously_ , it's also to secure his... their chambers, wards had been in effect before she'd... arrived, he's not a lackwit, but he doubts that was her concern. Merlin, he'd even reinforced the wards before he left for the Manor just to be absolutely sure she'd be adequately protected. 

" _Particularly_ when I'm _not_." There's an edge to his voice and the bond feels... off. He assumes she's worried about herself, which irks him given what had happened to him yesterday. Then he decides she's questioning his abilities and promptly becomes even more offended. Because _clearly_ valuing his _skills_ is more important than concern, or a lack thereof, for his well being... His priorities, much like hers, could probably stand for a little adjusting. 

Hermione's just worried she's responding to something about... _him_ in the wards and feels embarrassed. Terribly so. Obviously she has no intention of _ever_ telling him what they feel like to her. Fortunately for her, that should be the end of it. It's not like the wizard can read anyone's memories, were he to try...

A mite gruffly, he asserts, "You were quite safe last night." If one ignores her trip outside the gates, that is, but that's a topic for another day. 

No reply comes from her room. She goes unusually quiet. Even the clothing stops rustling. The feelings across the bond seem to soften in focus and vibrate, becoming a thick stream of ill-defined static that he'd describe as simultaneously anxious to fly off in a dozen different directions and none at all. He decides she's trying to squelch whatever the bond might relay, successfully enough in as much as he can't interpret it at all, and wonders in passing how his Occlumency manifests to her. He misses that a large part of it is her uncertainty _how_ she should respond or even _feel_ about the past night. She's figuratively _torn_. But she'd felt _very_ safe indeed, except that hadn't been _behind his wards_ , but _at his side_. And then there had been the matter of the half-shared bed... 

Remembering the hair on his pillow in the Infirmary this morning, which accounts for her location for at least some of the time, with a sinking feeling and far less certainly he asks, "You weren't here _at all_ last night, were you?" 

A soft, "No," answers that. She can feel his embarrassment. They're now evenly matched. 

Very, _very_ briefly he considers taking her to task for _not_ returning to the safety of the wards after she delivered him to Poppy. There's a Protection Vow to consider, he has no real idea yet how _that_ will manifest, and shouldn't like to begin to imagine what it would have done to him in the condition he was in last night... That almost certainly _would_ have killed him had there been any threat to her. And then, rather wisely, he decides to keep all of that to himself for now. Once in a blue moon, he proves able to kerb his often all too rampant self-destructive idiocy. 

"Thank you," he replies instead, not much louder than she'd been. "That wasn't necessary." He swears he can hear her shrug. 

"That's why I didn't take the Draught of Peace, by the way. I didn't have it with me." It sounds apologetic. "And I'm sorry about that." Apparently it is. "I realise you'll have been affected by that as well. Madam Pomfrey had given me a Calming Draught, and by the time I discovered it wasn't going to be sufficient..."

"You couldn't take the Draught of Peace in addition to it," he concludes, feeling a little guilty that he'd thought badly of her for _not_ taking it when the reason had been she'd apparently kept him... company. 

Of course, he's not sure how he feels about _that_. 

On the one hand, it satisfies some of his preconceptions about how bondmates _should_ behave. It would seem he has more of those than he thought. On the other, he's not at all sure how he should feel about having _Miss Granger_ bivouacked at _his bedside_. An occurrence that's become far too regular, to his way of thinking. But either way, he can't fault her for not taking the Potion. 

"Consider that my lesson learnt," she assures him. 

Somewhat rigidly he tells her, "If you remember to take it in the future, you may find some of the problems with your friends... managed." There's a mixed spike of indignation and embarrassment, she can't seem to settle on one or the other, and he clarifies, "You can't control _them_ , but you can take yourself, your responses out of the equation."

She relaxes again (he realises he prefers that feeling), laughs (strangely _that_ feels even more pleasant than it sounds, and it _is_ a pleasant sound) and answers, "And here I thought that was what Imperiuses were for."

"I stand corrected," he agrees. He may have smirked. Then he lets out a muffled snort as it occurs to him Barty had actually taught them something... Well he was definitely more useful than Dolores. If it weren't for his dark humour, Severus would probably have none at all. He sighs, cupping his head in his hand, propping his elbow back on his still bent right knee. His gaze, however, remains fixed on her door. 

Hermione had cast Cleaning Charms on her robe, uniform and blouse and Banished the first to her bed, the rest to her wardrobe. Ron's 'Bride of Slytherin' comments may still have been bouncing around in her head as she selected something to wear. She's also hoping to make up for what she supposes is the offending red and gold of her tie and jumper's trim, and without further thought, she had Summoned the green top to go with her jeans and trainers. Catering to the Professor, she imagined, and then she made the additional effort to cast the Charm Madam Pomfrey had noted down for her on her hair. 

It's... 

Well, honestly it needs work, but it was better than before. Although that may not be saying much... She will probably need to ask the Mediwitch about that Charm, too. Her hair is still far too bushy, but there's the soft break above her right eye. She thinks it's flattering; Severus would agree. Under the usual conditions that one were somehow able to slip him some Veritaserum, it should go without saying. 

When she emerges from her room in the deep green number from Sunday, his gawping response is enough to have her think about Transfiguring her entire wardrobe green, mistaking the reaction as being entirely due to the colour. 

He likes the gesture, no question. And it's most becoming on her, beyond any doubt. But then so is the cut. Merlin. Without some blanket draped over her... The _cut_ is _very_ becoming indeed. And the fact _any_ of that was recognisable on his face is yet another reason he normally doesn't drink to excess.

She certainly doesn't look like a student anymore. Naturally he finds her form-fitting clothes even more objectionable than her uniform, for entirely different reasons, but he wouldn't dream of saying as much. He's more uncomfortable now than anything else and sits there blinking stupidly for a while. 

"There," she says, settling back on the floor next to him. He could swear she's closer now. "That's an improvement, isn't it?" But she seems to be becoming increasingly less sure about that the longer he doesn't speak, the bond isn't helping things any, her smile fades, and she's soon back to worrying her lip. 

Eventually he feels he owes her a nod. He can manage that. And does. Perhaps a little stiffly. She rewards it with a smile so sincere, so quickly, he feels a bit of a heel for not having done so sooner. 

So he glares at the cat, instead, the cat is safe, daring the feline to desert him again. The Kneazle mix is unruffled, but as he makes no move to leave, Severus continues to pet him. 

Hermione stifles her grin.  
  


A little unsure how to resume their conversation, somehow things seem to have become... awkward between them, she Summons the plate of Hagrid's Rock Cakes from the table and holds it out to him. He shifts his silent blinking to the proffered... biscuits. That's an _exceedingly_ liberal application of the term, he is sure. "Rock Cakes," she feels the need to explain. "From Hagrid."

"I wasn't in any doubt. They're unmistakeable." It's only unusual to see them arranged like that on his stoneware. 

"He's sorry about yesterday," she obfuscates. She isn't quite willing to explore the concept of wedding presents with him.

"So he mentioned." One hand rubs his ribs again at the reminder. They don't really hurt all that much now. A bit tender yet, perhaps, but he's had worse. Far worse. As recently as yesterday evening, in fact. It's difficult to stay angry about the ribs for long, although he _would_ have appreciated more support from his colleagues. Not that he _expected_ it, no. He's not some numbskull. Frankly he'd have been shocked had things gone otherwise. Still, it would have been... nice. 

But then, when is it ever?

"Would you like one?" She offers the plate again.

His first thought is she's trying to poison him. He manages not to express it. 

She starts nibbling on one of the biscuits herself, possibly trying to demonstrate their edibility. If that _was_ her purpose, she fails miserably. The complete absence of any discernible progress that she makes on the thing hardly recommends them, assuming he were unfamiliar with the objects, which sadly he is not. No, he has no intention whatsoever of subjecting himself to those cakes ever again if at all possible. They're probably best utilised as projectile weaponry or maybe building materials, should they ever care to add another tower to the castle, say.

He smirks slightly, "Thank you, no. I'd much rather just watch you." 

She blushes, which he thinks is a little unwarranted as she battles to finish the Rock Cake. It's hardly an ignoble defeat to have to admit one's stomach, or _teeth_ for that matter, aren't quite up to the task. Hagrid's culinary skills are questionable at best. But she valiantly soldiers on, pinking further the longer he watches her - that in itself incentive enough to do so, his smirk steadily growing all the while - and finally succeeds in consuming a _single_ biscuit. He's a little impressed with her... intestinal fortitude, if not with her common sense. 

He believes she's about to stop, she's languishing, badly, when he decides he deserves a spot of fun. Apparently reconsidering, he reaches for a cake after all and a bit provocatively takes a bite, _immediately_ Vanishing the mouthful as he sits there pretending to chew. It won't get him completely around the taste, which is hardly _good_ , but it's far from the worst aspect of Hagrid's biscuits and on balance more palatable than, for example, his school trunk had been. Or many of his own potions, for that matter. 

Something about her eyes looks a little desperate, but having suggested the Rock Cakes - really, they _could have_ Vanished them and Hagrid would never have been the wiser - she can't seem to leave Severus to it on his own. She takes a second and does her utmost to match him bite for bite. It proves an even greater struggle than the first, the pace probably hadn't helped things any. 

It doesn't come as much of a surprise when, coughing and trying unsuccessfully to clear her throat, she resigns and puts the plate on the nearest end table. 

"Had enough then?" He taunts, but it's completely without venom. She's unable to answer, and merely continues to cough. 

He silently Summons and Scourgifies the whisky glass he'd abandoned, fills it with an Aguamenti and wordlessly hands it to her, his smirk still firmly in place. She swallows gratefully and then sets the glass on the floor between them. 

Her ability to speak returned, she thanks him and then Summons some grapes to replace the Rock Cakes and resumes her nibbling, again offering him some which he also declines. "Have you had anything else to eat today?" She asks a little too innocently. Luna may be rubbing off on her. The Ravenclaw certainly makes an impression. Sometimes she also makes excellent sense. 

Miss Granger is as subtle as Dragon Pox. He shakes his head. "Would it be alright to ask Sunny for some bread?" She prods. 

"I've said it was." But he saves her the bother and does it himself. A moment later some appears between them on a plate from the Hogwarts Kitchens. It's freshly baked, smells delicious, and still a bit warm to the touch. There's no other sign of the elf. "For efficiency's sake, if nothing else, you'll need to begin taking me at my word."

She doesn't clarify that the point of her question had been more to see if he'd object to her efforts to get some food into his system. It seems counterproductive. But on consideration, she can see how offering him Hagrid's Cakes might have proven confusing, obscuring her intent. The biscuits probably don't qualify as nutritive, are undoubtedly... difficult to stomach, not to mention chew, and are almost equally unlikely to help sober him up...

She places the grapes next to the bread on the plate, tears apart the small loaf and offers him a chunk. This he finally accepts, which wins him a smile. She _does_ have a nice smile, he supposes. It's certainly a ready one, quick to appear. 

They eat in silence for a few moments, Miss Granger and her grapes, Severus and his bread. He appreciates she hadn't tried to encourage him to have anything more to go with it. Given the amount of Ogden's he'd consumed, it mightn't have been wise, but it was... considerate that she hadn't forced him to explicitly acknowledge that. 

The bond feels more comfortable now and makes her a little bold. She is a Gryffindor, after all. Hagrid's biscuits had called something to mind and she somewhat teasingly asks him, "To whom shall I send the cake?" He raises a brow in query, she smiles more broadly and proceeds, "We agreed if anyone landed you in the Infirmary I'd bake them a cake." She nods resolutely at the thought. 

The eyebrow quirks, he's a little appalled she'd joke about _that_ , but the bond doesn't feel... hostile, there's nothing... combative about her in the least. 

"Shall I send it to You-Know-Who?" She prompts, somewhat less secure now, but still trying to reel him in. Belatedly it occurs to her that this isn't her strength, and, Crikey, even the Bloody Baron was more amusing than she is... She's begun wishing she hadn't said anything when the wizard beside her responds.

"You can assure me it would be worse than Hagrid's baking?" There's still a cautiousness about him as he begins to play along. It's all well and good when _he_... hectors. Goading _others_ is half his reason for being, if one discounts all the depressing, war-related ones that is. It's more difficult to be on the receiving end.

"Absolutely," she solemnly swears. 

In response, he flicks one of his long fingers at the plate of cakes on the end table; the gesture draws Hermione's gaze. She only stops staring at his hand when she catches one of the cakes rising a few inches in the air in her peripheral vision and turns to watch. Another movement of his hand, and he lets the biscuit clatter back to the plate with a sound _highly_ suspicious for something that's ostensibly a comestible, intoning, "That would be an achievement." 

"I'm an over-achiever," she explains, still so very seriously, turning back to face him. 

That earns her a snort of agreement. 

"Bellatrix," he offers. She's momentarily lost the thread, his hands and wandless magic both having proven distracting, and he expands on it, "She should be the lucky recipient. Kindly do your very worst," he encourages. 

Her brow furrows, she naturally has no understanding of the Death Eaters' inner workings. She's not sure she should ask, considers a few things and rejects them, and then finally goes with, "You-Know-Who didn't object?" She's thinking Voldemort would dispense the punishments, or at least determine them. He _had_ , obviously, instructed Bellatrix to Crucio Severus, but Hermione isn't aware of the particulars, and is thrown by the Professor's very definite placing of the blame at Bellatrix' wand. His logic is simple, he'd gotten less from the Dark Lord than expected, and Bellatrix had made _that_ far worse than need be. She typically does. 

Miss Granger's question has Severus thinking along different lines, having the dubious benefit of having been present when the news was received last night as he does, a natural side effect of delivering it in person, of course. He thinks she means 'You-Know-Who' hadn't objected to the _bonding_. He chuckles, but it sounds... tight. He may be amused, but he isn't happy. But as he's seldom the first and almost never the second these days... it's not unwelcome. 

"No, by his standards, he really didn't object. I was... fortunate." That gets him raised eyebrows as she takes his meaning, some mortification, and... sympathy. Unexpectedly, _very much so_ , that last doesn't bother him. On the other hand, any _other_ response would have annoyed him, so it's only sensible he's unbothered. For once. Maybe he's learning; maybe it just feels... right. "It seems he felt the appropriate punishment for _bonding_ was _being bonded_. Paradoxically. The sentences for transgressions aren't always blessed with... sense."

Honestly, it frightens Hermione. But she started this line of conversation, and it seems very wrong to shut it down now. On the contrary, she's... pleased if he's willing to speak of it. Well, maybe not _pleased_. But... She wonders if it might do him some good? She rejects that thought almost immediately, she can't imagine speaking to _her_ would be of any help, but still... She _does_ like that he's speaking to her about serious things. Usually people try to keep her in the dark. She mulls it over, and resolves to at least _try_ to treat it as matter of factly as he does. She won't _succeed_ , but she won't flinch either. She's determined. 

So she thinks about what he said. She tries to handle it like any other conversation. It's slower going. More difficult. And a little terrifying. But she finally succeeds and then amuses him when she assails his logic, "That's not a paradox. It's more like finding you guilty and then letting you off for time served. Or like losing a law suit but the Wisengamot only awards the plaintiff a Galleon."

He rather likes that. 

Albus doesn't enjoy talking about the things Severus experiences. For one, they're simply not enjoyable. And then they make _Albus_ uncomfortable. _That_ naturally annoys Severus. Greatly. _He_ has to experience them after all, he'd hate to think _talking_ about them causes _Albus_ any _discomfort_...

They rarely speak of more than the absolutely necessary. There's something... appealing in a bit of frivolity. Applicable frivolity. _Relevant_ frivolity. That may be a contradiction in terms, but Severus frankly hasn't much patience for the inanities most in the castle tend towards. Or the Order, for that matter. This... suits him.

So he lifts an eyebrow at her and drawls, "Just what a man seeks in a wife, a woman who doesn't know the value of a Galleon." 

"Seventeen Sickles or four hundred and ninety-three Knuts. Or four pounds and ninety-seven p, as of last Friday. I haven't checked the exchange rate since." She looks a bit smug. He smirks back. There's little point, he decides, in making notes to oneself to encourage her imprecision if he doesn't remember to _act_ upon them later. He deserved that answer.

And then he wonders that she hadn't flinched at the 'wife'. Speaking of exchange rates, he'd rather been banking on it...

"Should you say such things?" She asks. He half assumes she means calling her his wife after all, before she makes her meaning clear. "About You-Know-Who? And Bellatrix?"

"'What if', Miss Granger. 'What if'. I may be drunk, but I assure you I am still in possession of my faculties." She can't help wondering how 'full' that possession is. 

He continues, "We have two possibilities. What are they and my motivations for each case?" When she takes it for rhetorical and doesn't reply, he prompts, "Come now. Chop-chop. Expound upon them, please, if you'd be so kind." 

That's met with a grin, and she fingers her pendant as she answers. "You're a frightfully heroic member of the Order," her smile is a little impish, and if he had to describe her, he'd say she feels... mischievous, but her eyes are very warm. Almost too much so, somehow, "and that's how you truly feel. Or you're not, you're a dastardly villain," _definitely_ mischievous, "playing with my affections," he has no idea how her affections came into the equation, half of the answer is she's still feeling punchy, "and trying to make me think you aren't. A villain, that is. Either way you'd say the same thing." He's not sure about some of the details, but the gist was right. He nods and she looks satisfied. 

"Splendid. You're getting the hang of this marvellously."  
  


They've been getting along for a few minutes now, it might be a record, she thinks flippantly. Channeling her inner Slytherin, a nascent entity to be sure, she decides she's demonstrated her good will with the uniform and food (well, maybe not Hagrid's biscuits...), and she's hoping he might be willing to respond in kind. A bit tentatively, she brings up the potions again. 

"It will get me out of your hair faster..." She tries coaxing. "If you'd just take them?"

"The problem, I think you'll find, Miss Granger, is that absolutely _nothing_ will ever get you out of my hair _again_. Shy of _death_. Yours or mine. Probably doesn't matter which."

She hasn't magically gained the ability to deal with thoughts of her own mortality in the last few days, and responds, arguably sub-optimally, to that. "Well, _I_ certainly have my preferences." The look she gives him is piercing. 

He's slowed, no question, and it takes him a moment to get offended. When he finally does, it flares across the bond. By then she feels rather guilty about what her answer implied, because the _last_ thing she'd wish him is any kind of _harm_. Anything but that. She's collected herself somewhat, or not, reconsidered tacks, not necessarily _well_ , and before his anger can gather steam, she compounds the questionable judgment by waving her wand and... applying the Refreshing Charm to him. The one that Madam Pomfrey had only just taught her. The one which sends his hair fluffing up like a Pygmy Puff around his face. _That_ one.

Flick. 

_Poof_. 

_Fluff_.

He is _so_ startled by that, most likely never having been conscious when it was applied, and certainly _not_ by an erstwhile _student_ , let alone his... _wife_ , that he completely forgets to be angry, skipping straight to gobsmacked. He just sits there blinking. Repeatedly.

He's been doing rather a lot of that.

"There. Everything _imaginable_ is out of your hair." She's smirking, but then shifts to a smile. "I'm sorry, Sir, but you asked for that one." Her smile softens, becoming positively gentle. It's mostly in the eyes he thinks. "Shall we both simply agree to try not dying any time soon? As solutions go, dying seems rather radical. 

"And in the interest of putting off your possible demise, what do you say, would you please take the potions?" He's still staring at her. He's completely unaccustomed to harmless teasing. All the more so with either a physical or magical component, and this had both. 

What neither realises is that she is ridiculously lucky the bond lets him know there's absolutely no malice in her actions, or he'd be likely to answer in kind. Except when _he_ turns _his_ wand on someone, it tends to be decidedly less... _kind_. She doesn't begin to suspect how the bond helps her, because the level of Occlusion he is constantly able to maintain, even in his current inebriated state, that's how deeply ingrained it is, provides her with only a slight hint of what the bond can reveal. And he doesn't grasp this, because he isn't able to reflect sufficiently on his actions at the moment. Right now, he's mostly just reacting.

"Sir? _Please_? What harm would it do?"

He's still too busy being bewildered by her actions, and somehow this seems to echo thoughts of his own about her taking the damnable Draught of Don't Give a Shite, and in the end instead of answering he just surrenders. He stretches out a hand for the potions. His acquiescence comes so unexpectedly, that she initially isn't sure what to make of the gesture. He wiggles his fingers to prompt her to act, and her wishful thinking that he could be doing just _that_ helps her overcome her doubts and interpret the gesture correctly, however inadvertently. Goodness knows she hadn't made any sense of the things via their bond. 

One by one, she Summons the phials, five initially, from her room and hands them to him. He then sniffs each in turn, a mite theatrically, wrinkling his nose almost comically, but she bites her lip and swallows her smile - not that it makes much difference, but he appreciates the attempt - before he quaffs the lot. He didn't argue about a single one, something she wouldn't have bet on. She was relatively sure the Calming Draught would be an issue for contention. Madam Pomfrey almost hadn't bothered to give it to her, thinking he'd refuse to take it. 

Again, the bond betrays her amusement. And once again, he's trying to understand it. She's definitely _not_ laughing _at_ him. If he had to choose a preposition, he'd use _'with'_ as opposed to 'at', and it's abundantly clear why that would be preferable. What's less clear is how someone can laugh _with_ you when _you're_ not laughing. He feels like he isn't quite keeping up. He's missed the joke, but she isn't laughing at him for that _either_ , rather she's patiently waiting for him to catch up. It's all very strange. Highly disconcerting. 

As she hands him the sixth and final Potion, the routine changes. He seems to Vanish it, and now she'd like to know why. It was the Antispasmodic, and she is quite sure he still needs it, a fact that concerns her. Her certainty he'd be willing to take _that_ \- if he took _any_ potions _at all_ \- had been part of her motive for saving it for last, assuming if she tried his patience with the sheer number of potions and he balked, common sense would still have him cooperating there. The after effects of the Cruciatus are still in evidence, although not as extreme as over the weekend, she notes. It's either that, or the DTs, she quips to herself, and that latter seems unlikely given his intoxication. So she asks. 

"I administered the Potion directly," he explains. "It doesn't mix well with Calming, so I sent it straight to the bloodstream." 

Her eyes go wide at the thought. "Is that... wise?" She's chewing her lip again, but finds the courage to continue, "In your current... state?" 

He lets out a bark of a laugh and replies, "If not, I deserve the consequences." His hand waves, his fingers spread emphasising the statement, and she's following their movement again. They're almost as evocative as his eyes.

There's one final item Madam Pomfrey had given her, a small pot of Scar Scarcefying Salve. She Summons it, looks at him and blushes a little as she thinks about how she'd helped the Matron apply it to him. Hermione holds it out to him so he can see for himself what it is, and then deposits it without comment next to Hagrid's Rock Cakes on the end table. She doesn't quite trust herself to say anything about it, and really, he should certainly know what to do with it. He'll probably want to deal with that himself, she expects. In privacy. Hmm.  
  


He thinks about a number of things as he watches her. He didn't hesitate to take the potions she gave him, the sniffing all for show; he never doubted her intentions. That's not because he trusts the Loyalty Vow; he hasn't even thought of it in this context. Fundamentally, somehow, he trusts _her_. At least this far. Which makes it all the more startling when it occurs to him that _that_ was the second time someone has gotten the drop on him in over twenty years. And both times it had been her. Admittedly the last time she'd had the dimwitted duo with her and he'd been far more concerned with the two (or _three_ , as it transpired) Marauders before him...

Not that it mattered; he's unharmed. Perhaps a bit... _fluffier_. For fuck's sake. He has a moment of relief that no one else saw that. Merlin. He may be overlooking a certain elf and half-Kneazle in that... But his assessment of her was that she would not harm him and he was, essentially, correct. 

He hadn't thought twice when she pulled her wand out. She could have been lighting a sconce, the fire, Summoning whatever it is that she likes. Books. Probably books. Grapes. Vanishing more fur. She uses her wand for practically everything. It never occurred to him she could turn it on _him_. 

He wonders if this means he shouldn't drink, or if this means he hasn't quite got the witch figured out. Possibly both. 

Finally he speaks again, providing her with a peek at the things troubling him. Had she thought about it, it should have been obvious, but she was too preoccupied with his current physical state to think about the big picture. "Unfortunately it will most likely take a good deal more than potions to stave off my... possible demise."

"Sir?" She has a brief moment of panic wondering if he is worse off than Madam Pomfrey had led her to believe. 

"Due to our recent... _entanglement_ , what was previously a dangerous job has just become immeasurably more so." Guilt now mixes with her panic. His words have done nothing to dispel it, only shifted the cause for it. "This will undoubtedly be the death of me. Sooner rather than later." He means every word. It hits her then, she was right earlier about the fear. He really _is_ frightened. Not witless, not the way she gives in to fear, but this... _situation_ of theirs has him shaken, and he is absolutely _sure_ it will mean his death. 

She resolves then and there to do everything in her power to see to it that it doesn't. Whatever else, she will _not_ permit this bond to harm him. Purely pragmatically speaking, she doesn't think she could live with the guilt. There doesn't need to be any further reason, and she doesn't pursue the faint whispers in the back of her mind that it would also be a great loss.  
  


The bond keeps at him. For days now - has it only been two? - it's refused to give him any peace, deluging him with her every feeling. He doesn't understand how determination follows guilt on the heels of panic, basically not following her leap in logic, and he's tired of thinking about her damned feelings. He's tired of _feeling_ them. He doesn't even get to feel his _own_ feelings, he certainly doesn't want to feel _hers_ instead. Especially when they are frequently so confusing. He hates confusion. An annoying inner voice at the back of his head insists _that_ could have been easily avoided, or at least reduced, had he left the bottle beside him untouched. Fucking Know-It-All. 

He still feels like complaining though. "Thanks to this... _arrangement_ ," the fingers of his left hand splay in the air between them, the feline side-eyes him until he resumes petting the pancake-faced creature, "I now have the pleasure of Occluding from dawn to dusk."

"But _why_? I thought the Loyalty Vow was supposed to protect you from any exposure or vulnerabilities from my side?" And right _there_ is the beginning of a dark foreboding she's been trying to combat for most of the day. All too clearly she sees herself dragging her Head of House to the Professor's Infirmary room this morning... She begins to nibble her lip in trepidation. 

"Did you now?" There's that eyebrow of his. He could let it speak for him, it's _that_ expressive, but she'd miss his voice. She wouldn't dream of telling anyone, but she's missed his classes for more than just the chance to learn from him. She always enjoyed listening to him, too. 

"To begin with, it's a question of definition. That's the problem with Oaths and Vows. Or even Veritaserum. There are ways around them if the framing allows for it. And that's rarely robust enough. Despite the severity of breaking them, their strength lives and dies with how they're phrased. And that tends to be the average wizard's weakness." 

"You're not the average wizard." The reply is instant, almost automatic. Hermione's thinking of his logic riddle to guard the Philosopher's Stone. Or, um, the way he burst into the Transfiguration classroom Friday to rescue her, cloak swishing dramatically behind him. Almost definitely that. She thinks about that _a lot_. Hmm. And how he flattened the boys. Or maybe the way he carried her to the Infirmary. Yeah, that had sure made an impression. His hands, his arms, his chest... Holy Cricket, his poor chest! The frankly terrifying state of him at the time. Oof. And probably some other things. Nothing she plans on mentioning to anyone _ever_ though. But she can stand by the general statement. Whatever else he is, he _isn't_ average.

That's the second time she's made that claim now, it's hardly something he'd be likely to forget. He gives her a puzzled look, and immediately tests the bond. Most of it he doesn't begin to comprehend. But she still apparently means it. It still doesn't seem to be some sort of ploy or a clumsy attempt at flattery. It could be an thinly veiled insult... But no, it doesn't feel like that either... He hasn't a clue what it is, and decides what he really finds it is _strange_. Much like the witch. 

" _I_ didn't construct the Vows," he drawls. "Albus did." 

There's an even stranger expression on her face, and he can't begin to define the muddle through the bond. " _He's_ not exactly the average wizard either," she replies dryly. 

"No. No, he is not," he sounds almost grateful for that, and she begins to smirk again in reply. 

"So why is it still a threat?" 

"Merlin, you really don't know?" He runs his fingers through his hair, cradling his head in defeat for a moment. He's not being mean about it, he just can't believe the stupidity of this bonding, or that either of them consented to it, _especially_ not either of them, and he finds himself hard pressed to make its various failings clear to her now. Particularly as they can't change a ruddy thing. 

He's wrong about that, though.

"Fine. To begin with, you are an open book. There's not a thought in your head a trained Legilimens can't read should he or she wish to. And most things play out across your pretty face clearly enough that Legilimency shouldn't even prove necessary." She may have perked up at the 'pretty'. He should probably be more circumspect with his language. 

"How does Occlusion work to provide a defence against Legilimency?" He asks. She _loves_ this. It's like being back in his class, only this time he'll actually call on her, no hand waving required.

She keeps it succinct. "Either by suppressing a memory, and keeping it hidden, or by editing, eliminating an emotional response to the memory." 

"And in our case, when does that emotional response need eliminating? For the memory of any given incident to be 'clean'? Safe? Bearing in mind you can't Occlude." 

"I'm not certain. Probably when the memory is made is safest... No, _definitely_ , so it doesn't transmit via the bond. Because _I_ can't hide that information and otherwise they could just get it from me." 

"Very good, Miss Granger." She beams, he actually lets out a huff of laughter. "Sadly I shan't be awarding House points for that." She gives him a grin that lets him know she can tell it's all in fun. He wasn't entirely sure that it was, but also wasn't particularly malicious. Her enjoyment proves... contagious, however, and he finds himself... unwinding. Just a little.

"Further, if you are the living record of all events that take place between us, and anyone who cares to can examine them, given the mandatory skills, how could I resort to suppressing the memory?"

"You couldn't, Sir..."

"Correct again. Magnificent, Miss Granger." Despite the topic, he has a flight of whimsy. It's probably the alcohol combined with the Calming Draught, but he's a bit startled to hear himself saying, "Now I almost miss House points..."

"You could award chocolates instead," his lighter-heartedness is also contagious and she grins. 

"That would never do. At this rate, you'd grow terribly fat." She's almost offended for a moment before she realises it's a compliment. And chocolates were a rubbish suggestion, she just hadn't a better one to make. Books would be too pricey... The golden star-shaped stickers from her Muggle Kindergarten cross her mind, but she'd sooner swallow poison than suggest them.

"I suppose then you wouldn't be able to carry me off the next time you come to my rescue."

"Don't be ridiculous." He appears quite stern, and she worries about a half a dozen things momentarily before she remembers to listen to the bond and relaxes. "That's what Mobilicorpuses are for." The corner of his mouth raises ever so slightly in amusement.

"I shall simply endeavour not to need rescuing."

"It would be appreciated."

"Or grow fat," she smirks. He returns it.

They sit like that for a few beats, almost enjoying the moment of peace before the topic reoccurs to Severus, probably precisely _because_ he almost enjoyed a moment of peace, and he resumes, a bit sadly. "So essentially I need to not experience anything while you are present." She understands that instantly and the guilt returns. 

"And finally, the bond apparently betrays enough of what I'm feeling, even in your absence, that I can't afford for you to be carrying a record of it. In consequence, what does that leave?"

"Non-stop Occlumency." Her voice is very low as she says it, and she looks horrified.

"Quite right, Miss Granger, but still no bonbons for you." He sounds almost flippant. "It's our 'what if', Miss Granger, if you can feel me, and 'they' can read that, what choice do I have other than to Occlude, day in and out? Regardless of the side I am on, I would no longer be able to drop my guard for a moment."

"Then what are you doing now?" she challenges pointedly, but she's sincerely worried, he can tell. He's the only one of them who understands the rules of the game they're now playing, and he currently isn't acting like it.

"Wallowing in stupidity, Miss Granger. An abundance of that and self pity." He sinks together in a sad heap. "You needn't worry, though. It's not quite as stupid as you might think." He waves his hand towards the side table, and _swoop_ a phial of Sober-Up flies into his hand. "If I am... called," he gestures with the Potion towards his forearm where she knows only too well the Dark Mark is located, "I am prepared." He Banishes the Potion back to the table. 

She looks only marginally less concerned. If he's called, given his health, he probably won't _survive_. She honestly can't begin to imagine how he copes with that very real possibility so calmly. Then again, he's hardly sober, and there's a Calming Draught in play, but she suspects his reaction would be the same without either factor. He misreads her concern completely and something about her erroneously perceived disapproval amuses him. He decides to poke fun. 

"I'm entitled." Of course he is. He's a grown man, in the privacy of his own quarters, he's doing no one else any harm, and he's had a series of perfectly wretched days. He can do as he bloody well pleases, as far as she's concerned. Provided it doesn't affect his health. 

They aren't quite on the same page. 

The sarcasm is audible as he snarks, "I didn't get a stag night after all." _That_ was unexpected. Her expression shows it. "Not that I care for stags..." She can't help wondering why.  
  


He may be a grown man, but he's also an ass. Frequently. Things have gone surprisingly well, they haven't Hexed one another yet, and he perversely doesn't like leaving it at that at all. Getting along, that is; he can do without the Hexing. He's developed into a glutton for punishment, or at least that's what he tells himself, and can't bear the appearance of softness; he is _not_ soft. 

He's drunk, and ultimately his decision making processes aren't necessarily at their best just now. 

Naturally he's also feeling sorry for himself in this arrangement. Some comfort can be had from sex after all, and now that too has been denied him. Dimly he reminds himself that the elimination of the pressures to participate in some of the darker Death Eater practices more than compensates for this particular sacrifice, but it's hard to grasp in his current disheartened state. Now that that particular threat has been thoroughly neutralised, it's no longer as present in his thoughts. And he _does_ wish he had his rooms to himself, damn it. That too was some measure of comfort, _poof_ , gone with the flick of a wand and a unwanted bonding. 

Against a backdrop of various grievances, in fairness - more real than perceived, he needs to lash out a bit. Just at the moment, the best way to do so seems to be badgering her some more... 

"And now the next lesson in Oaths. Are they absolute or relative?" It sounds glib. Somewhat loaded. It makes her wary. 

"Sir? I don't follow?"

"If you had taken an Oath to only tell me the truth, does that function absolutely or relatively?" Her expression shows she's beginning to comprehend, and he warms to his subject. "If it worked absolutely, all that it would require is binding another with such an Oath, and I would know the truth of _everything_. Celestina Warbeck's natural hair colour, Mrs. Zabini's true age, the cure for Lycanthropy... 

"I could ask and you would answer. Or worst case, you'd try answering, and suffer penalties every time you got it wrong. But that would still help to narrow down the possibilities. At least with Mrs. Warbeck's hair colour. We could be here all week trying to guess Mrs. Zabini's year of birth."

"And how does that translate to a Loyalty Oath then?" She's nervous. 

_Very_ nervous. 

In addition to Professor McGonagall, she'd also provided _Malfoy_ with information about the Professor, or rather his condition, today. _'I need you to share_ nothing _about me with_ anyone _.'_ Well she's done a bang up job of that. 

As her anxiety ratchets up, he looks at her sharply. 

There had been a spike of unease before. Here it is again. This is no coincidence, and he shouldn't have ignored it the first time... He deserts his previous line of questioning now to pursue this. That had been in fun, not necessarily entirely _good natured_ fun, but still. _This_ , however, seems... serious. 

Unexpectedly, he finds himself becoming worried as well. He's not sure if it's purely her apprehension causing that, or if it's the fact she believes there's something he is unaware of to worry about. That unawareness strikes him as very dangerous indeed. 

"What did you do?" he demands. His instincts are good. She's clutching that phial around her neck for dear life now, like it's some sort of protective talisman, her knuckles beginning to whiten under the force of her grip, her head lowered and staring intently at the floor. "Miss Granger! What did you do?!" 

He leans close to her, very close, bending to see her better where she hides behind her curls. He never lifts a hand to reach for her, and with some surprise she realises she almost would have felt better if he _had_. Because she's Hermione, she instantly qualifies that with list of conditions (not too harshly, of course; probably not unexpectedly, she's also forced to concede...), but the essential fact remains unassailed. There's something a little unnatural in the way he avoids touching her. But his tone is commanding and between that and the compelling void created by the absence of touch - probably every bit as effective as if he _had_ reached out, grabbed her arm, tucked her hair back or tilted her chin upwards - she looks up, meeting his eyes. 

She doesn't have words for him, but doesn't need them either. She's practically flinging three memories, three thoughts at him, over and over, on a jumbled, non-sequential loop. Were he sober, he might not have looked at them. But given the serious nature of the threat she represents - he's convinced: it's potentially, _probably_ , lethal - and the ease with which he slips into Legilimency... The results are a foregone conclusion.  
  


_Miss Granger dragging Minerva to see him, asleep, wounded in the Infirmary. 'You thought I had underestimated his condition. That he had taken advantage of me. I need to show you something.'_

It explains the presence of the Warts and Warhol's voucher on his nightstand this morning. He'd hoped, _ardently_ , that it was delivered by elves. He'd doubted it. Few in the castle can use the elves for such purposes; even fewer do. He'd half assumed, given his luck, that Minerva had stumbled across his admission to the Infirmary by chance, presumably when checking on the Gryffindors who'd apparently also spent the night in Poppy's care. But he'd never have guessed Miss Granger would have contributed to Minerva's discovery, exposing him in that fashion...

He tells himself Minerva is a trusted member of the Order. The young woman's Head of House. That _Minerva_ was the person Miss Granger had trusted enough to choose to have screen her owls... It doesn't help _much_ , but a little. He _needs_ her not to share things with the Order or this will end badly for him. Very badly. Probably for them all. 

Still, it helps inasmuch as he manages not to become enraged at the young woman beside him.

His anger at Albus, however, is a completely different matter. At Albus and his meddling, the stupidity of the bond, the idiocy of adding the thoroughly unnecessary emotional link... The fact he himself ever agreed to this... It's all very obvious through the bond. Less obvious is the direction of his anger, and Hermione begins to worry for real.  
  


_Miss Granger telling Draco his prognosis, how badly he'd been hurt..._

He's about to explode as he sees _that_. 

He'd only just held his anger in check before. An _Order_ member he can almost understand, but a _Death Eater_?? The _Malfoys_ are playing host to the fucking Inner Circle as Miss Granger well knows by now. _Bloody buggering fuck!_

This is _proof_ her Oath offers him _no protection at all_. At the latest when the Death Eaters realise this, they can be relied upon to kill one or the other _or both_ of them. There can be no doubt about that. The only reason they effectively _aren't_ yet aware of this, given she'd spoken to _Draco_ , for fuck's sake, is no one knows Severus had instructed her not to reveal things about him to others. _That_ should last until anyone examines her memories. For half a moment he considers Obliviating that conversation and all related thoughts from her memory. Merlin knows, the witch before him seems to feel that's a legitimate course of action... 

Even were he able to find some solace in the thought _he_ could possibly escape the Death Eaters' response with his life, and he finds that far less comforting than he'd expect given the alternative, there's no way they can kill _her_ without tearing him apart at the seams thanks to his Protection Vow. There was always a chance it could leave him permanently damaged. It was supposed to have been temporary, as it couldn't be entirely eliminated with a Geas, but he's not sure he entirely trusts how Albus constructed the Vows at this point. Merlin knows, this is proof enough of their fallibility... And how typical of his luck that _this_ is the Vow that didn't take as planned.  
  


But there's more to that memory. The rest comes flooding in, and neither of them seem able to stop it. On the contrary, she seems... eager for him to see the rest. 

_Malfoy enters the corridor to the Arithmancy classroom, the two of them are apparently alone there, her sharp spike of fear._

_How she asks Malfoy, 'How was he?'_

_Malfoy._

She'd been _that_ desperate to hear how the Professor was doing.  
  


It...  
  


He doesn't know what to do with that. 

At all.  
  


He sees it happening, hears the words spoken. He can feel her concern in the memory via the Legilimens. He can even feel her experiencing it _now_ , through the bond, just from reliving the memory. In fact he can remember feeling it earlier this afternoon as he'd sat there drinking. Naturally he hadn't known it was directed at _him_ , that he'd been the cause. No, quite the opposite. He'd been annoyed, wondering what on earth _she_ had to worry about and had felt even sorrier for himself. 

Well.

It's incredibly difficult to reconcile his responses to both the threat he perceives in her actions - perfectly legitimate and far from an overreaction - and to the depth of concern for him on her part that had motivated those actions. Ultimately the latter gains the upper hand. 

In light of it, his anger begins to... crumble, collapsing in on itself, almost as if it were a physical thing, and with the way it leaves him feeling, it may as well have been. 

It's not that his response makes any sense objectively. It really doesn't. Her concern, although real, _wasn't_ earth shattering, he certainly doesn't mistake it for that, and the threat _was_ severe. But he's _very_ accustomed to the threat of death. It's a mixed blessing; for once that only works to his advantage. And he's very _unaccustomed_ to people worrying about him. Undeniably, her concern had been... _genuine_. The combination has him feeling... lost. Unsure quite _how_ to feel. 

She'd been so worried about _him_ , she'd been willing to ask _Draco_ how he was doing. 

The typical Slytherin would never do such a thing, he thinks, forgetting the times he _himself_ has. That may be an unnecessary precaution on their parts, perhaps there was nothing all that _substantial_ to be lost, she doesn't seem harmed by it, but still they wouldn't risk exposing their flanks in that way. And the emotional risk is a real enough thing. 

But she'd... wanted... _needed_ to know how he was. So much so, she'd resorted to... _that_. 

He's been careful to try to avoid any attempt to dictate how she 'should' feel about what's happened to her. That should be for her to decide. But he suspects he finds the idea of her talking to Draco even more of an affront to _his_ sensiblities than she does to _hers_. He'll need to watch that. 

_How she'd told Draco how he was doing apparently simply because the boy seemed to share her concern for Severus' well being. That she'd seen so little of that, and it had_ bothered _her_ so much _, she was willing to share information with_ Draco _of all people..._

That last is conveyed in a quick series of images, a collage of seconds of recollections and the emotions that accompanied them. It's effective and an usual selection for someone untrained in Legilimency. He has to wonder if that's how she naturally thinks. There are impressions of her facing other students and her temper flaring. It's elegantly composed. There are just hints of volume and tone, not enough of any memory to understand what the individuals had said and for him to have to react to that. Probably just as well, and not only because it eliminates that distraction. 

Without the suggestion of context, he wouldn't even know why she's frustrated with the others. He hadn't, after all, while he experienced those emotions of hers all afternoon. Of course, _without context_ , he'd ordinarily assume she's trying to mislead him, Merlin knows he uses that tactic often enough, but their bond proves she isn't feeling duplicitous. He... trusts it. 

_She felt too few cared and it had frayed her nerves. She just wanted to lash out at them all..._

There's Poppy saying as much, Miss Granger's sadness, outrage, sympathy and regret as she hears it. More flashes, excerpts of interactions with other students, her anger again... Her relief at the shared concern, a kind word about _him_ from Miss Lovegood and Draco. It comes very close to how Severus would try to present a thought, her emphasis however is far more emotional than his. He supposes that only makes sense given their personalities. 

Severus' anger dissipates.  
  


It's frankly impossible for him to remain angry in the face of that. But he still needs to make her understand the magnitude of her mistake, and he's trying to think how do so as the third memory rolls over him. 

It's more of a rudimentary thought, really, made clearer by the emotions accompanying it. It's a great oddity. That's just not how Legilimency works. He wonders if the bond has anything to do with this. Even more strangely, but maybe it helps make it possible, it's apparently something she'd thought about sufficiently that parts of it were no longer attached to a single memory or setting. She would probably be exceptionally grateful for that fact were she more fully aware of it, given the first time she'd thought about it, she'd been seated on his Infirmary bed, his half naked form curled around her...

_Miss Granger wondering how she could circumvent the Loyalty Vow so thoroughly._

The memory of him telling her, _'I need you to share_ nothing _about me with_ anyone _.'_

And yet she had and seems to be very aware of that fact. Disturbed by it... 

_A quick impression of her leading Minerva through the Infirmary this morning. Another two of Miss Granger telling Draco, 'he'll make a full recovery' and 'he was very badly hurt'._

Her emotions at the time contrasted with her emotions now help explain why it happened and prove how she's come to view it. He accepts the truth of that. 

A last thought, underscored once again by her emotions, then and now, a slurry of confusion, defeat, guilt, dread and fear. _She doesn't understand what she's done wrong or how she was able to do it, she only knows that she's failed badly on that front... She thinks she may be a_ massive _threat to his security._  
  


There are tears in her eyes when the link ends, and she lowers her head again. Their Legilimency hadn't hurt her, it isn't pain. It isn't trauma. She doesn't even feel... No, she doesn't feel violated. Thank Merlin. That had been a serious risk in her present state, and why he'd have never attempted that if sober. It had been stupid. He's not even sure he had attempted it _now_ , truth be told. Mostly it sort of happened. They'd fallen into it, and vaguely he wonders if the bond makes them more susceptible to it. Yet another question for another day. 

Maybe he has the Calming Draughts to thank for her not feeling he'd assaulted her thoughts, her mind. Or maybe she can feel his absence of malice, that he hadn't attacked her, just as he'd known to trust her when she cast her foolish fluffing Charm on him before. The tears express... her regret, he finally decides. 

He doesn't say anything for several minutes as he collects himself. 

She's understood it's a problem, repeating that fact won't help. Taken on a purely self-serving level, upsetting her by doing so will only have him suffering alongside her. But even as he thinks it, he knows that's not his motivation. Still, she truly hasn't grasped the nature of the problem, or she wouldn't have done it _twice_. 

This is incredibly dangerous. For them both.  
  


"Minerva _and_ Draco? _Both_ sides?" That's met by a sniffle and then silence. "On the off chance you weren't certain _which_ side I serve?" His Tergeo to clear her nose is surprisingly soft, and the feeling of his magic on her lifts her spirits a little. She is sure that wasn't his intention. But she looks him in the eye, a little more hopefully than a moment ago.

"No, of course not..." 

"That's a truly _flagrant_ violation of the intent of the Oath." He searches in his pocket for a moment and then hands her his handkerchief. She wipes her eyes. It smells faintly like him, which comforts her further. She finds herself now clutching it. Tightly. It serves much the same purpose as the phial around her neck. She's also sure that wouldn't have been his intention either. 

"The _intent_ , perhaps, but not the Oath itself, or I couldn't have..."

" _Malfoy_?" Utter disbelief. She can't really blame him. 

"He seemed genuinely concerned..." He has no words. She'd understood it at the time. Why she'd done it. Wanted to do it. It had made perfect sense to her then. Right now she's having difficulty putting together a convincing argument even just for her own ears. This would seem to be one of those things she'll never be able to explain to anyone else. Certainly not _him_. 

He stares at her silently, blinking. _Again_. Eventually he replies, "Well then, by all means... As long as he was _concerned_."

He hasn't taken her head off, she realises. It's taken her a little while to do so. He doesn't even feel all that angry through the bond anymore, she finally notices. But perhaps she'd been afraid to listen to it before. She swallows and grabs a bit of courage and with an attempt at humour offers, " _Genuinely_."

He almost snorts at that. "Of course. That makes all the difference," he replies. She takes it purely for a witticism; in part, he's acknowledging what a difference her genuine concern had made to him.  
  


They sit there in silence for a while. She dabs at the tears that seem to still want to come. He performs another Tergeo when she sniffles again, so immediately she hadn't even noticed her nose had become congested once more. It's not just the way the bond affects magic, she's sure. It's gentler than Madam Pomfrey's. Admittedly, the Matron is more goal oriented in her applications. But the fact of it, coupled with the feel of it has her smiling a little. Before that becomes more noticeable she needs to apologise. She can't, she _won't_ have him thinking she didn't take this seriously. Truthfully, at this point he probably couldn't convince himself of that even if he wished to. 

"I'm very sorry about that. It wasn't what I meant... I mean, I _didn't_ mean to..." She flounders and gives up. "I'm very sorry."

His lips form a thin line, and then he nods. Finally he sighs. "So I gathered."  
  


He has an idea, he suspects it isn't a good one. But he needs her to learn this lesson. Indelibly. 

He elegantly stretches a hand up in the simultaneously overly dramatic way of the hammered and flicks his fingers towards the door of his laboratory, which opens, and wandlessly and silently Summons a small number of potions. Another flick, and the door closes. She can hear the tumblers locking it once more as he fumbles for something in his breast pocket again.

"An experiment, if you will." He hands her the three phials he Summoned. She examines them closely, but doesn't recognise any of the potions. Hardly surprising, she supposes. "Kindly administer them to me." Now she looks really confused. Madam Pomfrey has only just explained that Hermione most certainly _can't_ administer the potions...

"How?"

"Really, Miss Granger..." He makes a series of 'tsking' noises before throwing his head back, his mouth open, looking for all the world like an oversized baby crow. When she doesn't move, he turns to face her, "Come now, feed me." She could swear he's laughing at her. Silently. 

Crooks shifts his gaze warily between them before getting up and seeking the safety of her chair. His convictions that humans really _aren't_ the brightest creatures are only reinforced when Hermione crawls into the space he just vacated. 

This seems like a very bad idea, but she doesn't quite grasp why. Yet. So she opens the first of the three phials and pours it into the Professor's mouth.

And absolutely nothing discernible happens. 

It's almost a disappointment. Then she remembers she should probably feel relieved. She reaches for the next phial, unstoppers it, and pours it after the first. 

The results are quite spectacular and almost immediate. He turns a horrible shade of sickly green, and begins gagging and retching straight away. 

She's still blinking in terror as he shoves something from his fist into his mouth, struggling to swallow it as he coughs in fits all the while. He had clearly palmed it, prepared for this eventuality, and for all his deathly pallor, he seems not a bit surprised. 

"Be... Bez... Be... Bezoar," he finally gasps, as his colour begins to return. Not that there's usually much of it, but what there is of it is generally less... green. 

"Poison," he finally explains, rather superfluously. 

"I gathered." She's furious. 

"Rather disloyal of you to feed it to me, wouldn't you say?" His voice is ragged. 

"You _asked_ me to." She's steaming. 

"And your Vow didn't stop you." He has to pause, apparently to try coughing up a lung. Serves him right as far as she's concerned. He helps himself to her glass of water, but still has to struggle to swallow, and then asks, "What have you learnt?"

"That you are not to be _trusted_!" That was the _stupidest_ display she's ever seen, and she's seen rather a lot of stupidity living with the Gryffindor boys for over six years. 

"Tone, Miss Granger." He misses House points. Maybe he'll reconsider the bonbon system. He pauses a moment to reflect. Then as if it's only just occurred to him, which it may well have done, asks, "Which potions did you give me before?" She lists them. "Hmm. How long ago would you say that was?" She tells him. 

He Summons three of them from his stores, the final door - clearly his bed chambers - flying open to permit them to pass before slamming closed, and then quaffs two thirds of each phial. He looks at the third phial for a moment, shrugs, and then quaffs the rest. She just stares at him as though he's mad. Completely bonkers. Gone round the twist, never to be seen again from the look of it. "Bezoar will have counteracted them," he explains. 

"Yes, I gathered _that_ as well. One went directly to the bloodstream and the other two won't have been seen as requiring an antidote, I take it."

"Only one, the second was fast acting," but he looks pleased she remembered that lesson from... Merlin's balls... Friday. She was learning even _then_. He's impressed. He's also still exceedingly miserable. He deserves it. It was probably worth it, though. She won't forget this lesson either. Although now he's wondering if he shouldn't put more faith in her ability to learn. It would certainly be easier. He'll give it some thought. 

Later. 

Should he resume thinking at that time. 

Clearly he isn't just at the moment. 

He repeats, "What have you learnt?"

"That the Vow won't keep me from disloyal behaviour absolutely. It apparently is _relative_ , and I suspect it will only work to forbid an action if _I_ perceive that behaviour as disloyal."

Damn. She _does_ deserve a chocolate for that. He wonders if he could have Sunny impound a chocolate frog for her. Draco usually has some about. The little rotter definitely owes them both at least that. Or maybe _Severus_ deserves the chocolate himself for that very memorable lesson... "Very good. I see my effort was not wasted on you."

"Madam Pomfrey's very nearly was. She put a great deal of effort into saving you, and then you risk it all for... what? A cheap parlour trick?"

"A road test. We are now better acquainted with the limitations of our Vows. More aware of them. And as I claimed, and contrary to your beliefs, despite the Vow, you can quite literally be the death of me."

"And where's the failing in your Vow? When will you cease to protect me? Or would you be able to harm me?" Her anger is beginning to yield to disappointment. 

"I almost definitely will." 

"Relatively or absolutely?"

"Oh, then I absolutely will." She's not amused. He tries again, "Relatively, with certainty, because different definitions are fundamental weaknesses of such Vows. Absolutely... That's probably more complicated. 'Incidit in scyllam cupiens vitare charybdim'."

"Stuck between Scylla and Charybdis. A rock and a hard place."

"Marvellous, Miss Granger. A dilemma. When both choices are equally bad. Or perhaps a Hobson's choice. The absence of one."

"So we did all this, and it won't keep us safe? It may actually put us in danger?"

"I think it's safe to say it already _has_." The eyebrow, the dry voice, that look like she's thick as they come... She kicks herself again how quickly she forgets what he went through last night, but it's just too frightening to keep at the forefront of her thoughts. "And no, it probably won't be quite as effective as you hoped."

"You didn't hope..." She wants to ask, but he heads her off. 

"I'm not given to hoping."

And this mad man is who she married... for what purpose? She just stares at him in disbelief. He senses that, just like everything else she feels, and becomes annoyed. 

"But you needn't worry. You won't be bonded forever," he dangles provocatively in front of the naturally inquisitive witch.

Her confusion is instantly apparent; her query predetermined. "But, Professor, I thought the whole point was that the bond couldn't be dissolved? If it could be, 'with any degree of ease', then it would offer no protection?" 

"Quite right, Miss Granger," he's again quick to reassure. And deriving a bit of sadistic pleasure proceeds, "But as I shan't be surviving this war, you will no longer be bonded." Her anger at this surprises him, but he's in poor shape to reconsider and, having started on this ill-advised course, won't permit any correction. "But fear not, I shall make every effort to survive just as long as possible to continue to provide the requisite... _protection_." 

And now even without their bond, he's reasonably sure he would feel her fury. It's virtually palpable, even in his numbed state. "See that you do," she hisses at him before rising, angrily Summoning some books - unexpectedly they seem to be the ones _he'd_ checked out for her on pet keeping, her robe, and then with a _very_ pointed look, sharper than any Diffindo, she arcs her wand a final time and Summons a Draught of Peace that she waggles at him irately before stalking from his, their, chambers. 

Not that she _takes_ it immediately. No, of course not, his luck was never that good. The feline 'mrowr's his agreement, so he probably said that out loud as well. 

He's not sure where she's going, and not sure why he even thinks to wonder. It's not as though he cares. Except the anger he feels lapping harshly across the bond, and his apparently insufficiently dulled nerves, belies that for practical reasons at the least. It's good to know he can run her off this easily, but if the cost is this level of... irritation, then he isn't sure this will be a... satisfactory solution moving forward. He shall have to get creative. As if he hadn't enough to demand his attention.

  



	78. 11 11r Tuesday - Picturing Snakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hermione, the Bloody Baron, Theo Nott, Harper Hutchinson, Vincent Crabbe (in repose), Portrait Phineas Nigellus Black (mentioned), Portrait Salazar Slytherin (mentioned)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter. Sorry. Mechanical issues again. Grr. Argh. Sometimes you just can't catch a break... (Yeah, but it's a _lot_ harder to do that when you're not supposed to use your hands... /snark) Details in comments if you're curious. It's _honestly_ okay to laugh. In fact, I'd prefer it. 
> 
> And bonus Slytherin scene included for the good **Madameslytherin**.  <3  
> 

Only just managing not to drop her books in the process, Hermione throws on her robe in a most cursory nod to uniform compliance as she storms off, foremost at that moment to get away from his, their, rooms and the increasingly derailing... train wreck. _He_ was a bleeding _train wreck_. Some pedantic inner voice disagrees with the use of 'derailing': if he's currently indeed a 'wreck', then he has de facto already _'derailed'_ , but she hasn't even the patience for pedantry at the moment. 

She's _that_ livid. 

Her unfastened robe swirls behind her, billowing with the anger in her barely restrained movements in an unconscious imitation of a certain husband of hers. Had anyone witnessed it, that would definitely have sparked even more discussion, but she's fortunate and encounters no one for a while. She's a woman on a mission, and she has a headmaster to confront. There are questions that need answers, and she's just the witch to demand them. She shall not be denied!  
  


Well, maybe. 

By the time she reaches the gargoyle to the Headmaster's chambers, of course, she'll be a little less sure of that last bit, but she knows that she doesn't understand much of what's before her, and she will need to be proactive to untangle things as best possible. She's certain, she needs to be in a position to affect what change she can. That means information gathering. 

_Wouldn't the Professor be ever so proud?_

She wonders fleetingly if his snark has already begun rubbing off on her. 

_Probably._

For the moment, she's so exasperated that she doesn't notice the movement in the portraits around her as she storms through the dungeons.

* * *

  


There's a chorus of hushed whispers and a number of the magical paintings' subjects scurry from one picture to the next. The concentration of Slytherins in the portraits is hardly surprising considering Hermione's current location, and given the pedigree of many of the subjects, it also shouldn't be unexpected to hear the vast majority have more than one portrait, many of them having a couple even within Hogwarts. In fact, given the higher than average distribution of moneyed purebloods in the House, Slytherins comprise significantly better than a third of the castle's human portrait subjects. 

Within moments, the portraits have dispersed throughout the school, an urgent mission to complete.  
  


During his tenure as Headmaster, Phineas Nigellus Black had seen fit to arrange the portraits of Slytherins more strategically around the castle. He personally had commissioned additional paintings of many of them, having the original portraits stand as models for newer versions. The hallmark of those portraits, for the keen eyed, is that although the subjects are in highly different settings and clothes, almost suspiciously so - most portraits agree, variety is what they eventually come to crave most - and usually with great quantities of food and drink, as well, they are very clearly of the same age. Almost no one has noticed that curious fact in the intervening three quarters of a century, as scarcely any are truly observant, and the trappings of setting and clothing prove so distracting for most of those few. 

The quintessential Snake, Black had even managed to convince the School's governors to finance most of that expenditure from the reserve budget, and the descendants of the subjects to cover a substantial portion of the rest. And yet it had been worth it to him, seemed _important_ enough, that he'd been willing to loosen his purse strings and pay for the remainder out of his own pocket. It's hardly a coincidence that in the Grand Staircase, just as in the dungeon corridors, there are conglomerations of those with supplementary portraits that allow the subjects to move quickly, spreading word amongst themselves to almost every corner of the castle within minutes. 

It doesn't take them long before they've located the Baron and alerted him that the Head's bondmate is on the move.  
  


The fact said bondmate is a _Muggle-born_ , a _Mudblood_ , had caused for quite a bit of a stir; again, the preponderance of old families means those with blood-prejudices are over-proportionally represented amongst the group. And Black's own prejudices had certainly contributed to that when he made his selection of the portraits to have recreated. But the very fact the Head and the Muggle-born are _bonded_... In much the same way it had spoken to something in the Bloody Baron, it helped to win over many of the portraits. And of course, beyond their sense of duty, an abiding respect for tradition is a far more unifying House trait than any prejudices could ever be. 

The Baron himself had spent quite some time over the course of the day negotiating with the portraits, trying to make their obligations clear. With the most stubborn, threats had been voiced; the Baron has precious few qualms there. If the portraits weren't going to do their duty to their House and Head, then surely it would be in everyone else's interests were they moved to the lesser frequented corners of the castle, and more helpful portraits shifted to take their places. 

Oddly, few were truly eager to have their portraits moved to dark, deserted corners or largely abandoned turrets. If the isolation weren't sufficiently unappealing, the absence of a view is generally discouragement enough.  
  


Ironically, Phineas himself had proven one of the most resistant to those threats. As one of the elite handful who had actually been headmaster or -mistresses during their lifetimes, he has some advantages over most of the others. First and foremost, his _portrait_ has kept most of the _man's_ wits and knowledge about him. That means he's far too much of an asset to banish to some desolate corner. And it also means he knows quite well that the Baron would have difficulties making good on his threats. 

Ultimately, the ghost would need to convince one of the staff to make those changes, most likely the current Headmaster. The probability that the _House ghost_ would truly be inclined to reveal the secrets of their House to the living embodiment of all things Gryffindor... Phineas considers the risk negligible.

He also finds the notion nearly laughable that he'd be moved otherwise, were the Baron able to convince other staff to shift his additional portraits on the sly, say. For one thing, the Baron isn't the most... _persuasive_ of beings. At least not if forced to work without intimidation tactics. For another, his _own_ status as a one time headmaster means _he's_ less likely than most of the other portraits to go unnoticed were they to attempt it. And frankly, the very idea of a solitary, student-free turret appeals to him _greatly_. He should be so lucky. 

Additionally, his primary portrait hangs, and will continue to hang, in his erstwhile office not far from the Headmaster's desk. As that _isn't_ negotiable, and indeed provides the Slytherin portrait coalition with such a significant strategic advantage, well, he simply sees no need to bow to the ghost's demands. 

A smattering of the old guard takes its cues from him, but not many, and as Dumbledore had rearranged a fair few portraits himself during the first Wizarding War, the positions of just those portraits logically aren't particularly strategic. Currently it really doesn't leave any significant gaps in their net.  
  


For all his urging and threats, the Bloody Baron hasn't explained the circumstances for the bonding. He is well aware that he knows more about this than almost anyone in the school, living, dead or painted, and yet... it doesn't seem his secret to disclose. He's naturally... taciturn. Some of the portraits very much... aren't. He won't have them garrulously exposing the Head's young bondmate to... well, to whatever might come of widespread knowledge of those circumstances.

It's none of their business. 

He's explained the facts, at least as they were presented to the students as a whole, and whispered hints in a very few, _select_ painted ears along the lines of what most of staff were told, but taken things no further. All that handful are able to discern is there was an attack on a Muggle-born, but the Baron revealed no identities. No one needs learn any more, at least not from him. That decision, as he sees it, rests firmly in the hands of the Head. Or his wife. 

Of course, he suspects the Head would make the better decision from a purely... tactical standpoint. 

_Gryffindors._  
  


The Slytherin common room, however, has quite a number of portraits on its walls. When the Poste Serpentes were opened this evening and hissed their accusations for all to hear, those portraits were witness to the spectacle. Word spreads quickly. 

Merlin, Madam LeStrange's creative adaptation to the Spell alone would have assured that, as would the Malfoy boy's state. _Three_ Serpents! That was _very_ rare. Generally only one predetermined member of the immediate family would dispatch a Serpent, anything else courted disaster, or inter-family feuds, something certainly not taken lightly in the House. For Norman Nott to have sent one to a Malfoy... Nott must have been very sure of his justification to voice his grievance. 

And the boy's... _bollocks_... 

All the portraits are agreed, _no one_ has ever seen or heard of that being done before. Even Salazar Slytherin had to grudgingly admit: he was impressed and had never _dreamt_ of such a thing. On the other hand, the way it left most of the wizards watching feeling, _including_ those who existed only in pigment form, it seems the sort of Spell predestined for a witch's wand. 

But the _news_ the Serpents had to impart... That was a whole different matter. 

As with the students in their House, when the portraits come to hear of how the Head's bonding to a Mudblood, that is a _Muggle-born_ , was in response to something some of the seventh years had done... 

_Every last one of the portraits_ falls in line and cooperates, including old Salazar himself. The first Head, as it transpires, is the one to drum the stubborn rest together and straighten them out. In no uncertain terms, there is a principle at stake, and the Head most decidedly should _not_ be punished further. They needn't enjoy it, they needn't approve, but they _will_ do their duty by the man. 

If a Mudblood, er, _Muggle-born_ benefits from that as well, so be it. 

The small minority who were aware there had been an assault will draw their own conclusions once they hear about the Serpents' imputations. With a strengthened sense of purpose, fuelled by outrage, they will help to keep the other portraits in line, but fortunately keep their own counsel as to their reasons.

* * *

  


In light of all of that, it shouldn't come as a surprise to much of anyone but Hermione that as she emerges from one of the lesser used spiral staircases, a shortcut to reach the Headmaster's office, the Baron appears before her. 

"Good evening, Madam Snape," he whispers. Startled, she pulls up short. Before she can think of anything to say, but then he doesn't exactly wait for her to do so, he's softly encouraging her to follow him into an alcove. Hermione doesn't even think to question it any more and just casts the Notice-Me-Not on herself at his bidding. 

It's not long before she hears voices approaching them.  
  


"You can't seriously mean to tell me you have no idea what you did to get out of this?" It's one of the Slytherin Quidditch players. Hutchinson, she thinks. A sixth year. Their only male Chaser. There's a muffled thud immediately followed by Nott's voice.

"Careful, Harper. Merlin's left nut. Vince is going to be in bad enough shape as it is." 

Deciding this is as good a moment as any - actually, she's probably waited too long as it is - and having no desire to draw the Professor from chambers in his present state for anything... stupid, Hermione quaffs her Draught of Peace, quietly returning the empty phial to her pocket. 

She crouches low to the ground and peeks around the corner, thinking she'll be less likely to be noticed there should the Notice-Me-Not not be sufficient, and spots the two Slytherins making their way down the corridor with an inert third, apparently Mobilicorpused and floating unconscious before them. Hutchinson appears to be scraping the third boy along the wall, steering him into corners, architraves and the occasional bit of statuary as he goes. When she recognises it's Vincent Crabbe, she heartily approves. 

There's a chuckle, it doesn't sound kind, but does seem genuinely amused. "Yes, I bet he is. His nose _really_ doesn't look good."

"It never looks _good_..." Theo replies, earning himself another chuckle. 

"Worse than usual, then. Which is saying something. Especially after his allergy attack last night. Did you know he accused me of letting Crankshaft into your room?"

"You didn't, did you?"

"Please. I know the rules. I certainly wouldn't put poor Crank at risk to mess about with Vince. He's a good cat."

"Which isn't to say you wouldn't mess about with Vince..." 

That's met with a snort of laughter Hermione reads as agreement. As if to prove Nott's point, Hutchinson steers Crabbe's recumbent form into a suit of armour. "Watch it, Harper!" Theo cries out as the armour whips its head about to face the boy. "At least go for something less valuable." The armour nods vehemently, clanking its agreement, its plume of decorative feathers bobbing furiously as it does so.

"No damage done," Hutchinson assures his housemate. 

"Well not to the armour anyway," Nott casts a Tergeo to clean up some blood, first on the armour's leg, priorities, the suit thanks him with a creaky inclination of its helmet, and then on Crabbe's head. "I don't want to have to explain this to Madam Pomfrey. Why don't you let me take him?"

"No need. I've got this." That's followed almost immediately by another thud, and even Hermione is sure it's deliberate at this point. "You're avoiding my question, Theo. What did you do?"

"Harper, I honestly haven't a clue."

"Which leaves Confunding or Obliviating."

"Or a Draught, but I'd probably have to have agreed to that." He sounds like he's given it quite some thought. Hermione's now reasonably sure what they're talking about, but oddly doesn't feel all that inclined to tell him he's been Obliviated. 

"And that doesn't worry you? The likelihood your mind was wiped? Clean as Tergeoed? Scourgified?" There's something reserved in Hutchinson's voice, he sounds like he's holding back. There's certainly no sympathy; if anything, it's slightly mocking. 

"Are you mad? Of course it worries me." Nott sounds it. 

"And why shouldn't I be knocking you into the nearest wall, too?"

"Merlin, Harper, I just don't know. My father's owl..."

"Because he's known as an _honest_ wizard?" Theo really can't think of an objection to that. His father is many things. 'Terrifying' first and foremost amongst them. _Honest_ he is _not_. 

"His Serpent blamed Draco, and that has to have been true..."

"At least as he knows the facts." Harper really is a great deal cleverer than most give him credit for. In addition to a good head for numbers, he has a sharp eye for the crucial details of things. 

"He's not easy to fool." Theo further offers in his defence. That sounds... off. There's a hint of hope about it, but an utter absence of pride. Hermione gets the feeling he doesn't like the man much. 

"You know I'm not the only one wondering. Was that why you were trying convince us to help her? At lunch? Was this the reason for your lobbying?"

"I'm not kidding you, Harper. I hadn't a clue what the Serpents were going to say." He goes silent for a moment, and then hails his friend. "Wait. Stop a minute." 

Hermione gets nervous and pulls back further into the shadows of her alcove. Nott had helped her earlier; she hasn't forgotten. With the way her day had gone, it had been rather welcome. And it had certainly made for a change. But Hutchinson is apparently frequently an arse - for all his lack of bulk, he's still one of those thuggish Quidditch-playing hooligans, as she sees them - and her experience alone in corridors with Slytherins lately... 

Well, she may be a might skittish. 

She quickly revises her anti-Slytherin sentiment to exempt the Professor. She really needs to stop doing that, generalising that way... And then she makes another concession that the Baron was of course a Slytherin, for something like a _millennium_ now, and a real comfort. She looks up towards the ghost, he's gone more transparent than usual so as not to draw attention to the alcove, but he seems unconcerned, and so she holds her ground, careful not to make any noise. 

Nott draws his wand, and Hermione expects she might otherwise have tensed at that, but she can feel the Draught working in her system. Her wand in hand, she's ready for anything. 

Except what comes of course. 

Nott turns to his housemate and solemnly intones, "I swear I have no idea what they did to deserve this," he nods towards Crabbe, " _or_ trigger the bondings, or what _I_ did to... 'intervene'." In point of fact, he has so _little_ idea, that he has no recourse but to use his father's word for his actions. "I swear it." There's a flare of magic and Hutchinson nods sombrely. 

"Alright, Theo. I believe you. We're good." He thinks it over for a moment and then tells the older boy, "But it would probably be a good idea if you could get the Professor to say something on your behalf to the others. Because I'm not the only one who was wondering, you know. And some of them are... faster on the draw, and less likely to ask questions first."

Nott sighs. Heavily. "If you were even tangentially involved in something that ended with him _bonded_ , never mind to whom," Hermione prepares to bristle, but it doesn't even sound derogatory, "would _you_ want to go speak to him about defending you against the House?" He exhales again in a pained 'whoosh'. "I think he's got other things on his mind right now."

She's waiting for the crude honeymoon jokes - they're getting old - but they don't come. Apparently that's not how the Snakes see her relationship to the Professor. Which... well, at least there's that. A quarter of the castle down, three quarters to go. 

"No, I suppose I wouldn't," Hutchinson agrees. "Well, I guess I can speak up for you some. I have your Oath after all. And Blaise _did_ say the Professor told him to take his cue from you. Maybe that will be enough..." He doesn't sound convinced, and if Hermione is reading Nott's shoulders correctly, he isn't either. 

The Baron floats very close to her ear and hisses, "Privacy." She's so unaccustomed to this despite her years of sneaking about with Harry, that it takes her a moment to realise he's asking her to cast a Privacy Charm. Silently she performs a Muffliato, and then shaking his head he tells her, "You may wish to learn another, my good lady. The hum on your Charm... It's liable to attract... attention. Which rather defeats the purpose." 

She blinks, taken aback at the critique of her work by a ghost, but then he does have a point. It's mostly good for not being overheard, but it's not exactly ideal for going undetected, as their experience in Professor Taylor's course had shown. But Hermione gets lucky, and neither of the conscious Slytherin boys pays the low buzz any mind. 

"Did you want to talk about something? Else?" She prompts the Baron, slightly offended. It probably isn't wise and certainly not _nice_ to be shirty with him after he's kept such a careful eye on her, and she catches herself. She quickly follows up with a soft smile to compensate for her tone. He still finds her smile such an oddity that he completely forgets to register her tone in the least. And even if he had, he considers insolence almost a student default. 

"It is my understanding that young Nott was... helpful... Friday last." He's decidedly ill-equipped to deal with emotional witches and not sure how to broach this, and the apparent tension in her shoulders as he does so has him not wishing to push the point. Of course, had she not taken the Potion earlier, it would undoubtedly be a good deal more than a _slight_ tension in her posture. But she doesn't voice any objection, and he feels obligated to explain a possible opening for her here. He accepts Gryffindors are... less likely to see them. There's nothing to be done for it; he has to work with what he has. 

"The House has decided to exact a... modicum of revenge for the Head on the young men... involved. You are observing some of the beginnings of that." He gestures towards Crabbe as the boys resume their trek, continuing on their way, apparently to Madam Pomfrey and the Infirmary. 

" _Should_ you feel Nott was... of assistance, you _might_ wish to consider that it could prove... useful... to speak for him, to the others, much as Hutchinson mentioned." Her eyes go wide at the thought, and the Baron immediately qualifies his suggestion. "You needn't provide any... details as to what occurred. None whatsoever. It would be more than... adequate were you to... vouch for his character." 

She winces. 

He accepts that couching it as 'vouching' had clearly been a step too far. It was... inopportunely expressed. He realises that no matter the benefit to be gained by the manoeuvre, she is currently not prepared to consider it. This proves even easier for him to accept; it's certainly not related to an inherent shortcoming of her House. It's only human. He'd been human once. Quick to anger, and slow to forgive. No, he can't fault her there. 

It hadn't helped matters that he hadn't explained the benefit particularly well. He had upset her before he could, and now she's no longer open to what he's trying to say. He'd handled that... poorly. 

He's probably out of practice. 

"There is no pressure, Madam. Please make no mistake, the choice is yours. I mean only to make you aware of your options, your... opportunities."

"Opportunities?" It sounds squeaky. She's having a little trouble finding her voice. It's probably not a good sign when the _Baron's_ voice is stronger than one's own. 

"It can be... advantageous to gain allies. Nott spoke to the others in favour of providing you with... support. It could be... beneficial to see that his position is... reinforced. Not... weakened. Because I assure you, the other four will find their positions weakened... _acutely_... in the days to come." 

She swallows, hard, and tries to think about it. 

_Honestly_. 

Goodness knows, the Draught definitely helps. 

She understands what he's saying. It makes perfect sense. She hadn't realised Nott had been the one to encourage the Snakes to stand up for her today, and now she feels a little guilty. She can even admit he _had_ helped her Friday as well. She really shouldn't like to imagine what might have happened had he not delayed... Not that anything happened. 

_Nothing happened._

_At all._

And Nott probably helped make that so. 

But... 

When she closes her eyes and pictures those boys standing in front of her Friday... 

She _really_ prefers to picture the Professor carrying her to the Infirmary instead. Well, she rather likes doing that anyway. 

And she really _hates_ picturing herself tied to that chair in the classroom... 

She's so grateful that the classroom doesn't even exist in that form any more. She'll never see the room like that ever again. Except in moments like these that she's been trying hard to avoid. In her memories. 

When she pictures the boys, frankly she sees them as a group. Try as she might, admittedly she doesn't try hard, but then that's sort of the point, that she _can't_ try harder, she doesn't see them as individuals. They're the _group_ who attacked her. Again, not that anything happened, _nothing happened_ , but it had been... Well, it had scared her. And she can't find it in her, not today, to try to see anything but that _pack_ in front of her. And she can't do what the Baron suggests. 

She just can't. 

She stands there silently shaking her head, and the Baron alleviates the need for a reply, "Well that's decided then. We shall wait for them to get clear, and I'll accompany you the rest of the way." Truthfully, he'd have done that anyway, but now he intends to remain visible. He thinks it's for the best. 

She nods her agreement to the plan, and he wants... he wants to get her speaking again. Unstuck. He has no desire to leave her in this state. So he tries to distract her. "Where were you going?"

That's an easy one. "I wanted to speak to the Headmaster."

"It isn't that I don't... approve of your sartorial selection, Madam, the noble colour suits you well. But perhaps it isn't... ideal for a meeting with the Headmaster?" She could swear he's smirking. 

She groans. "I left quarters in a hurry," she tries to explain. 

He seems to shrug. His whole form wafting up and down as he does so, as if on a breeze that isn't there. "It's of little concern. You are a witch, are you not?" She smiles at that and lifts her wand. A wave later, and her green blouse is now white, she reaches in her robe pocket and retrieves her tie which she knots in place, and two more waves have her trainers Transfigured into something resembling the regulation shoes and her jeans into her uniform skirt. The fabric is wrong, the feel and drape of it, but if she keeps her robe closed, no one should notice. She really should ask Professor McGonagall about that one of these days. 

"Do I pass muster?" 

"I preferred the green," he answers honestly. 

She smiles broadly now, "I think the Professor did as well."

"Superior minds..." He quips. It's a strange thing in that coarse whisper of his, and yet she's _sure_ it's a quip. 

"Men of discerning taste..." She half-corrects him with a wink. It's been so long since he's thought of himself as a 'man' - other than in the past tense - that the statement throws him. He's simply... a ghost. The House ghost, but _just_ a ghost, all the same. The witch is a petite bundle of oddness. 

"And yet I believe this ensemble is more suitable for visiting Professor Dumbledore." He drifts out into the corridor and then back into her Muffliato field. "They have gone. Shall we?"

He bows and extends an arm to indicate for her to lead the way. As she leaves the alcove, he falls in beside her. 

"I'm sorry about before," she starts. He doesn't quite follow and endeavours to puzzle out for _what_. She tries to help him along, "About Nott..."

"There's nothing for you to apologise about. You misunderstood, Madam. The decision truly was entirely yours to take. There is no wrong or right, only what you decide to do." 

She doesn't know what to do with that. There's _always_ a wrong or right. "But there's apparently a better course of action?"

"There were... advantages. That is all." They continue in silence and he gets the feeling she believes that means her choice was wrong. He tries again. "There were also disadvantages." That should do it. 

Of course it doesn't. 

"And what were they?"

It seems so obvious... He tries to remind himself, she's a Gryffindor, and a young one. He can be patient. "You weren't... _comfortable_ with the suggestion."

She simply looks more confused. So he tries yet _again_. " _That_ was the disadvantage." 

"If that's what stands in the way of a better solution, then that's an _obstacle_ to be overcome, not a 'disadvantage'," she instantly objects. 

"No, Madam Snape. It is not. If you wish, we can revisit this in a week, or a month, or never. But if this is how you continue to... feel, then this is how we will continue to handle the matter."

"But isn't there, objectively, a better solution in that scenario?"

"Not as long as there isn't a good deal more to be gained from acting... contrary to your wishes, or your wishes change." He sounds sure. She wishes she were as well. 

"I wasn't being rash?" 

"Madam Snape, if you do not promise me, this instant, to stop worrying about this matter, I shall find myself... unable to advise you on such affairs in the future." It's the sternest imaginable whisper, and she wonders for a moment if she's alienated him, _frustrated_ him, until it occurs to her that he's holding his chains so that they don't rattle and has been the whole time. That wasn't about not being heard by the boys. The ghost has been trying to tell her about the importance of recognising allies; she knows: _he is one_. 

She gives him another soft smile, "Thank you. I think I understand now."

"It was my privilege, Madam," he assures her with another formal bow as they reach the Headmaster's gargoyle. "I wish you a good night." 

"Good evening, Baron." She bites her lip a bit nervously, still sort of unsure where they stand, she doesn't wish to _presume_ , but recognising at least a little how this seems to work between them continues, "I'll see you in the morning?"

He gives a stiff sort of nod before he withdraws, she thinks to not give the impression he's angling for the password to Professor Dumbledore's office, and then she wonders if he would even need the password as a ghost or weren't perfectly capable of staying there, invisible, until someone came past and used it anyway. But she can't fault his manners.  
  


The Bloody Baron heads straight to the nearest Slytherin portrait, pitches his whisper even lower than usual, and instructs the figure to keep watch until she leaves the Headmaster's office. There's always the chance she'll Floo back to chambers, but it's more likely she'll leave via the Griffin staircase and take her meal in the Great Hall afterwards. Either way, until they have a confirmed sighting, the portrait is to stand watch. 

That much is clear.

  



	79. 11 11s Tuesday - Dining with Dumbles / POLL

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hermione, Albus, Portrait Phineas Nigellus Black, Portrait Dilys Derwent, Winky_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **ALSO READER POLL IN THE COMMENTS. IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO HAVE SOME EFFECT ON SOME OF THE THINGS THAT ARE COMING, PLEASE WEIGH IN.**

"Jaffacakes," does indeed cause the gargoyle to yield access to the stairs to her, and with only a brief moment of hesitation she continues on to Professor Dumbledore's office. At her knock, he calls for her to enter.

"Come.

"Ah! Miss Granger. How unexpected. Lemon sherbet, perhaps?" he asks as she steps into the room, gesturing for her to take a seat in front of his desk and then proffering the candy jar. Her parents may be lost to her, but their years of influence have left their mark, and she never once considers accepting the sweet. Only as he withdraws the jar does it occur to her that the manoeuvre was designed to put her in his perceived debt, and she has to laugh to herself. 

Recalling her recent conversation with Madam Pomfrey about just this topic, she smiles inwardly. Experiments have long shown that it's more effective to have the person perform a favour for _you_ than to perform one unasked for them. Her Professor most certainly would be proud of _that_. Suitably, she almost smirks. Wizards always underestimate the value of Muggle research. And ignore psychology as a field entirely. She's so pleased that she's knows this little tidbit, in fact, that she immediately decides to implement it.

"But perhaps a spot of tea instead, if it wouldn't be too much bother?"

"Of course, of course. Not at all. Winky, a pot of Darjeeling and some biscuits please." In addition to a plate amply laden with those biscuits, the pot appears with a service for two, a sugar bowl and a small pitcher of milk almost instantly at his elbow, and not for the first time she wonders when it even had the chance to steep? Do the elves keep ready pots of tea in stasis, or how is this managed? With the demand in the castle, that might prove a viable solution. She admonishes herself to stay focused, and returns her attention to the elderly wizard seated across the desk from her as she accepts the cup of tea he has poured for her. 

Milk for her, _three_ lumps for him. Her mum would have kittens. 

He looks... exhausted. 

Still, he seems perfectly content to make small talk as he nibbles on the biscuits - amusingly, she notes they are indeed Jaffacakes - and she manages to throttle a nearly overwhelming desire to dispense with the pleasantries and get to the point. But it seems just a very few days in the Professor's company have made enough of an impression that she finds herself able to tamp that impatience down and play this little game. 

School is progressing well. Yes, she is enjoying her courses as usual. No, she's never regretted discontinuing Divination (she only barely manages to suppress the derision at that, or so she thinks) nor Care of Magical Creatures, for that matter. Yes, she does miss Hagrid. She declines to comment on Professor Trelawney. What a nice autumn they have had so far. That's some nip in the air now, though. Winter is clearly coming. Quite. 

Personally, she thought the snow was a giveaway. 

Eventually he tires of this game and provides her with an in. "How is life with Severus going?"

Pleased to finally get to the meat of things, she answers this more enthusiastically, "Presumably at least as well as I could have expected." Sensing he is about to pretend that that concludes the matter, she rushes on to open the door to her questions and the reason for her visit. "But I believe it could be much better if _you_ were willing to provide me with a more complete picture of what I am dealing with." Score two for Muggle psychology; she's avoided ambiguous phrasing: she wants _this_ from _him_. 

He merely blinks in response, and she presses on. "I'm not asking you to endanger any of your plans, but I would remind you of my Vow. I am sworn, _bound_ , to be loyal to him. I _cannot_ subvert his goals." 

Frankly, she's not really convinced of the truth of that, particularly after that little... demonstration of the Professor's, but she thinks it sounds good in support of her request. She apparently masks that uncertainty well enough, or it is of no consequence, and the Headmaster does indeed proceed to take up the gauntlet.

He's almost amused as he replies, "I greatly appreciate that reminder, Miss Granger..." 

And with a sudden awareness - that's the _second_ time he's done that - she realizes she almost missed an opening there and hastens to correct him, "Madam Snape." 

Unused to being interrupted, at least by students, he's momentarily nonplussed. "Hmm? Beg your pardon?" 

"Madam Snape. I am Madam Snape now." She manages with a surprising degree of conviction; she could swear one of the supposedly 'sleeping' portraits behind him snorted. And now she's thinking if they are to continue this union for very long - and completely disregarding the Professor's thoughts about his life expectancy (which hardly bear consideration), that would seem likely - they should probably have a talk about that. 

Well, _some day_. Because she's still not sure how she feels about taking her... _husband's_ name... Of course, her mother has ('had' she corrects automatically with a twinge) no issue with having taken _her_ husband's name, but then it _was_ a different generation... Realizing that she's once again getting distracted, and trying desperately not to picture having _that_ particular discussion with... Severus, she supposes... It almost causes her to snicker. _'Focus, woman.'_

"Of course, right you are, how remiss. Madam Snape. And what, pray, makes your picture incomplete?"

"I find myself lacking what I suspect are key pieces of information about his background." 

"I should be surprised if you know _anything_ of his background..." he begins, but she again jumps in to retake control of the conversation.

"Indeed." She knows for a fact that she's channeling... Severus now. She quickly pushes on before Professor Dumbledore can point out that she doesn't need to know anything about her husband's past. She is convinced that she has a valid point and will argue it. "I know very little about him, but I believe that our arrangement can provide some benefits for him..." 

In what she is _certain_ is a mean and _thoroughly_ unsubtle tactical attempt to dissuade her from her line of enquiry, he raises an eyebrow at that in a _most_ luridly suggestive fashion, while 'Hmm'ing. If anything, it makes her more determined. And once again, she thinks she hears something, more of a sputter this time, from one of the portraits behind him. 

Although she can't quite suppress a blush response - suddenly she remembers the Headmaster had seen her memories while under the influence of that Potion Friday, Crikey, which means he'd heard much of what she'd said (Blimey! The language alone...) - she'll be _damned_ if she allows mere embarrassment to hinder her. On consideration, it's probably only the Draught that makes that possible, because that had been _beyond_ mortifying. "...If I better understand him. What he has behind and before him, then I can provide more constructive support." 

Satisfied that she is earnest enough to not be easily dissuaded, and unwilling to reveal himself too plainly by simply denying her, Albus considers if there might not be an advantage to accommodating her. She has quite rightly hit on the notion of providing support for Severus, as he had hoped she would, although he hadn't pictured _this_ particular development. 

"Miss Granger," he begins, and then seems to catch himself and try to placate her, but she comes to doubt that when the portrait snorts softly again, " _Madam Snape_ , I have not yet had supper. Have you?" She shakes her head tentatively, hoping this won't be the prelude to postponement. 

"Then would you be averse to joining me?" He enquires. 

Quickly deciding this is the most promising route to getting the answers she seeks, and a better result than she'd dared hope for, she agrees to dine with him and thanks him for the invitation. He calls for Winky and the little house elf appears, takes his order for two dinners and vanishes, leaving no trace other than the faint scent of Butterbeer behind her. 

Unconvinced that it can pose any real risk, Albus directly asks the young woman, "What do you wish to know?" He can always refuse her if her request is too... problematic. 

A plate appears on the desk before him, and a tray bearing her supper shimmers into place, floating in the air before Hermione. "Please, tuck in," he bids her, starting on his own meal, and she picks up her fork to follow suit. For someone who felt it was important to have refused his offer of a _bit of candy_ , she has few qualms about accepting a _meal_. Perhaps the significantly lower sugar content makes all the difference. Or her relatively empty stomach. 

"First, I am trying to understand a certain interpersonal relationship dynamic within the Order and some of the underlying issues he has with Harry." His eyebrow raises at that, but he merely nods for her to continue. Assuming this doesn't interfere with the promise he'd given Severus not to reveal his motives for helping the Order - he certainly doesn't need Severus on the warpath - it could indeed prove advantageous if she understood the problems with Harry... 

This line of thought, however, leaves him completely unprepared when she continues, "So to begin, I'd like to know: was he attacked, or _nearly_ attacked, by," she hesitates and then deliberately omits the 'Professor' so as not to create a loophole, "Remus Lupin? As a student?" 

Seeing the slight tension that had immediately formed just between Professor Dumbledore's eyes begin to lessen, she amends that, "In his werewolf form?" And, there, the tension is back. _That's_ what she wanted to know then. 

She's not sure when she grew this distrustful - probably sometime yesterday given the way the announcement of the bonding was handled, she thinks a little ruefully - but she thought it wiser to start with something she _knows_. Well, _believes_ she knows, but still... And _that_ was apparently how the Headmaster looked when he had something to hide. 

More confidently, she continues, "I have reason to believe both that he _was_ , and that he can't speak of it for some reason. I wish to know the details and why."

He considers the situation again. It's very interesting indeed. Frankly, he probably could have lifted the Oath completely four years ago when he'd freed Severus of the requirement to keep Remus' secret. Leaving any of it intact had been a matter of deeply ingrained over-precaution. Well, not so deeply ingrained it had kept him from trying on the cursed Gaunt ring, but still... And it was probably about twitting Severus again; something about those days brings it out in him. It helps mask any residual guilt he might be inclined to feel by going on the offensive. 

Of course, it's far more offensive than he realises, but he has a tendency to overlook the victim in these things. 

He really only has a small handful of things to worry about by removing the Oath. There was a very minor risk of demotivating Remus, thereby rendering him less useful to the Order, but there isn't likely to be much contact between him and Severus. Remus now has a wife and budding family to... impress, which should keep him in line, and his and Severus' roles in the Order are so established, there's no risk of anyone paying any attention to anything Severus has to say about all those years ago. That might be more about Albus preserving his dignity than concern for Remus at this point. 

And Albus no longer needs to fear it could undermine Harry's faith in his father and his role as the great war hero; the role model has been suitably established. Or that it could put paid to Albus' lie about why Severus had saved Harry his first year, and again there's a component of Albus saving face. But if looking at the old detention records hadn't made it clear to the boy... Well, he certainly isn't going to take Severus' word for anything. No, Albus doesn't really need the Oath anymore. 

Not for _Severus'_ sake anyway. 

People won't... people _don't_ listen to Severus. So much so that the man hardly bothers trying. That won't be an issue. _Miss Granger_ , however, is a different story, and there's something mulish about her expression, despite the Draught he _knows_ she's taken, that has him... slightly concerned. He really doesn't need her stirring things up with Harry. 

He's still not willing to blatantly shut her down, that's far too obvious, but he quickly hits upon a solution to the problems this presents. "This raises a number of issues, my dear." She's sure he'd like to fob her off, but she's not going to be put off lightly. The determined slant to _her_ brow tells him all he needs to know, and he has a hard time not smirking as he gives her his terms, "But you are quite right, understanding Severus could well be the key to better cooperation. However, I doubt he'll thank either of us if he were to hear that I am betraying his confidences, so I'll require you to keep that to yourself." Later she'll wonder _whose_ confidences he was actually 'betraying'. Understanding that her agreement is required before he will continue, she nods. "I'll need your word on that."

"You have it." A ripple of magic across her skin makes her wonder if there is more significance to that agreement than she expected. Probably. Not surprising given everything else. But not of consequence either, and it's done.

She considers the phrasing and hits on something that, unfortunately, shows in her face. The statement was broader than need be, which instantly makes her more suspicious, but even more lamentably, still not sufficiently so. Nevertheless, she's worked out that she wouldn't be able to tell _anyone_ \- not only the Professor - she had the information from _the Headmaster_. But that _doesn't_ mean she couldn't swear she had it from a reliable source, or reveal just what she knows. Not that Harry and Ron seem to be doing the greatest job of _listening_ just now, but sooner or later...

"Good." There's a self-satisfied set to her features that has him quite certain he's right in his suspensions about her. A Legilimens confirms it. After consideration, Albus revises that to include, "I can provide the details you desire on that specific... incident, but only if you'll submit to the same restrictions as Severus did." Off her slight apprehension, he rushes to reassure her, "As the injured party, you may assume that _his_ agreement to the stipulations lends them a degree of acceptability with which you too should be comfortable." Later she'll remember 'may assume' was his wiggle room and adjust her opinion of him accordingly. _Bastard_. 

She _should_ be thinking about the bitterness she knew the Professor felt, and consider that it might not all be directed at the perpetrators, or that her understanding of that word is too narrow. Regrettably, she doesn't. She'd also have done well to remember that he himself had told her the primary aspect that still bothered him about the Oath was the _inability to speak_ of those events. Or that she herself is annoyed with the Headmaster that she can't speak about Friday after only a few days, even though she'd be loath to do so if she _could_. But this close to what she perceives as her goal, sadly none of that crosses her mind either. 

Regretting that he seemed to have spotted her technicality and considering that the Professor might be right that she is far too transparent, she still decides it's worth proceeding despite this restriction. Failing that, she wouldn't even have the information to reveal, she deems it useful information she is unlikely to come by by other means, and clearly knowing is better than not, even if she _can't_ share. She agrees to his stipulations and he commences. 

"Then let us begin. I need your Oath not to discuss the events of that evening with anyone not currently aware of the facts of the matter. I assure you that Severus took the same." She's not particularly surprised by that, she'd thought as much, she knew there was an Oath and those stipulations explain why he was unable to speak of it with her. She was convinced, in the frame of mind he was in, that he _would_ have done otherwise. 

"And what you tell me will be the truth in return?" She demands. The portrait sounds like it's trying to stifle a chuckle. She takes that as a good sign. Professor Dumbledore merely cocks an eyebrow in reply to her question and does his best to look wounded. A week ago, she might have bought the act. 

"Naturally, my dear. I thought that went without saying." The portrait's attempts to smother its chuckle end in a strangled cough. Albus pretends not to hear Phineas, but there can be no question it's deliberate at this point. He's capable of being silent, sitting there with no external sign of response, feigning sleep for _months_ at a time when it suits him, assuming he doesn't vacate the frame altogether. No, this is no coincidence. Which presents the question of _why_ and where the portrait's loyalties lie, first and foremost, to the man's House, Severus as the Head of that House, Hogwarts, or Albus himself as Headmaster? Somehow he's coming to doubt that last one. 

They commence with the Oath, Albus guaranteeing to tell her the truth about that evening in exchange for her Oath to speak to no one about it who doesn't know the facts of what transpired. Hermione could swear the portrait clucks its disapproval. 

Once completed, Professor Dumbledore proceeds to tell her how Sirius lured the Professor, _Severus_ as was, into what she can only understand to be a trap where he was confronted with a transformed Remus. Oddly, no one else seems to have taken quite such a dim view of what Sirius had done, but then _really_ , what else had he expected would happen? She'll never understand people if she lives to be one hundred and thirty-seven. _And_ three quarters. 

It's a fairly dramatic tale, atmospherically told, and the drama of it distracts her for some time. There the Professor, young _Severus_ , was, in the dark and deserted tunnel, all by himself and faced with this werewolf under a full moon, injured in the process, probably fortunate to have survived in fact, especially without having also been _turned_ in an incredible stroke of luck. He was 'rescued', if one can call it that, by Harry's father. The Headmaster doesn't say much about their relationship, but she knows from Harry, there had apparently been some bullying between them. Most likely more than a little to go by the degree to which that knowledge had affected Harry. 

Finally, Severus had been forcibly sworn to secrecy, just as she'd thought, all while the story was changed and James emerged a hero and Severus an ingrate. She may be interpolating, but she's quite certain that was the result. A few pointed questions on her part confirm that in consequence, James became Head Boy, an honour he probably never should have had, reading between the lines, as he'd never even been a Prefect before that. Naturally, there had been _at least_ four boys, the Prefects from each of the Houses, who had previously been deemed more fit for that position. But Professor Dumbledore proves noticeably evasive on that topic, and she can hardly _force_ him to answer. 

Sirius went essentially unpunished, she gathered, and even with the benefit of years, to her own knowledge both he and Remus remained unrepentant, certainly with respect to that evening, and continued to cast Severus as the villain of the piece. Mind boggling, but it explained a great deal in their interactions. It also put his actions when she, Harry and Ron had faced the werewolf, Remus, in their third year and Professor Snape had thrown himself in front of them in an entirely new light. 

She tries to picture it, what he'd been through, relate it to her own experiences, and the closest she comes would be if Malfoy... No. That's as far as she gets, but the image doesn't properly take form. She tries again, if Crabbe, and, yes, that sits much better as analogies go, if _Crabbe_ were currently strutting about the school claiming he'd rescued _her_ from Death Eaters. And then made Head Boy for it.

Holy Cricket. She'd probably try to kill him first chance she got. 

She'd certainly curse him with acne reading 'ARSE' across his face. Now that she thinks of it, she still might if she can figure out how to do it without his cooperation. Or maybe 'SCUM'. Although there's something about faces and arses that has an appealing symmetry... 

She asks Professor Dumbledore about her theory that James Potter may have been safe from Remus, the werewolf that is, at the time thanks to his Animagus ability. It certainly casts even more doubt on his bravery from her standpoint, but the Headmaster has to admit he doesn't know if the boy had been able to do that at that time or had made use that skill on the night in question. 

She finds that terribly disappointing, and only now that the story is more or less finished does she realise it hasn't changed much about her understanding of the events. The details have left that essentially unaltered. "But why can't you say for sure? Why didn't you use Legilimency?" She asks, a little desperate for answers she's beginning to suspect she'll never receive. 

"Oh, but I did, Madam Snape," he assures her. 

"So why aren't you certain if that made a difference?" Truthfully, she already knows he was at most months from perfecting the Transfiguration at the time. Whatever else, James doesn't seem to have been the sort to bottle it under pressure. And he seems to have had an abundance of self confidence, likely to trust, excessively, to his skills in a pinch. Goodness knows, Harry has more than a bit of that himself. 

"Because I used the Legilimency on _Severus_ ," he replies. "I took his version, his _recollection_ , of events as sufficient. Much as I did Friday with you." There seems to be a sharp intake of breath from the portrait, and she pointedly doesn't look, not wishing to see its expression. She gets the feeling it's just made some kind of connection she'd rather it hadn't. 

So she sits there staring at the Headmaster thinking about his approach to events like these. Frankly, she's not sure that _is_ 'sufficient'. She thinks it would have made an incredible difference to have known what Sirius had intended. It's the possible difference between murder and manslaughter, which it had come damn close to being. This approach leaves Professor Dumbledore free to wash his hands of the matter. Without much inconvenience. And apparently few bothersome pangs of conscience. No, she finds it... Unsatisfactory. 

"And as Severus lost consciousness briefly when he hit his head in the tunnel, today no one could say for sure if James ever used his Animagus form that night or not. Remus certainly can't. He won't have any real recollection of events." She decides it doesn't matter if James _used_ that ability, what makes the difference is if he believed he _could_. Her thoughts play transparently across her face, or perhaps it's another Legilimens, and Albus chooses to address them, "At most he might be able to say if James had the ability in general at that time." 

He continues more softly, driving home the point that had begun to disturb her, "But would it really make that much of a difference at this point?"

It certainly affects how she sees James Potter's actions. But... She's not really sure that makes much of any difference at all. In fact, she's wondering what ground she's gained here tonight. Sure, she can picture it all quite clearly... But... 

It proves highly frustrating, or rather _will_ , once the Draught wears off. At the moment she can just sense that's what she has to look forward to. 

What have the details changed?  
  


Far less than she'd hoped. 

To this day, Harry continues to blame Professor Snape for Remus' firing. _He_ had revealed Remus' secret. But then what doesn't Harry blame him for? She now knows his position isn't exactly... fair. Harry's got the wrong end of the wand. 

Not that Remus or Sirius had helped, trying to play it off as a petty carryover from an old schoolboy rivalry... As they would have it, the Professor's antipathy was down to sour grapes, a residual teenage jealousy. About _Quidditch_ , no less. It seems absurd...

But truly, she hadn't even agreed with Harry at the time. Neither had Ron, for what it's worth, although his anti-werewolf prejudices had probably been the reason. No, for her part, she had always held the Potions Master in high esteem for the protection he offered them that night. Well, now she does even _more_ so. It was a defining moment, both for her and in her understanding of him. And as her understanding of him improves... 

Well, so does her opinion of him.  
  


The question for _her_ at the time, unanswered to the present day, is how someone with Remus' condition, acutely aware as he is of the dangers, could have been so _reckless_ as to have neglected to take his Wolfsbane Potion in a timely manner and risked exposing students, and faculty for that matter, to potential harm or death. She knows _why_ he was distracted. That's not the point. No, the point was how _that_ had been all it took for him to throw caution to the wind. 

Or how it took _Professor Snape_ publicising the merest _fraction_ of what happened for there to be any _consequences_. For goodness sake, it once again bordered on a miracle that none of them had been killed or turned, and yet no one else saw fit to act? Somehow they felt that was... what? _Acceptable behaviour?_

She thinks again of the things Remus had told her of his days as a teen with the Marauders, how they had run free through the castle grounds and Hogsmeade, ever so merrily placing others at risk all for a bit of a lark. The close calls, _many_ of them, that he so readily admits. He makes all the right noises about regrets, but he _really_ doesn't seem to have learnt from it. 

And Professor Snape had stood by, the whole year, and said nothing, keeping the darkest secret of a man who, however inadvertently, had nearly killed him as a boy and treated him with a minimum of respect on into adulthood. That is until that man's thoughtlessness and carelessness once again put the Professor's life, and others - hers amongst them, at risk.  
  


No, she's completely clear where she stands in this. 

Right by the Professor's side.

* * *

  


"I'm afraid, Madam Snape, that's all I can tell you about what occurred that night. I hope that satisfies your curiosity." He keeps his voice neutral, but doesn't for a moment believe it has. She'd attacked this from the wrong direction and appears to be slowly recognising that. As agreed, he'd provided her with what she thought she wanted, no more or less, but not, he suspects, what she'd really been _seeking_. 

She should be careful what she wishes for. 

Nevertheless, he _is_ reasonably convinced it will serve her purposes equally well. Just not as she anticipated. No, not at all as she expected. He doesn't smirk, knowing she'd misunderstand his motivation for it, but he's sorely tempted.  
  


Hermione sighs, pushes her finished supper tray from her, it disappears almost immediately after, and tries to figure out where she'd gone wrong. She'd been _sure_ when speaking to the Professor earlier that if she only knew what had happened to him... 

Hmm. 

Well, she does _now_ , or presumably as much so as she ever will, and... What? She knows now there's no point in pursuing any more details, they won't change things either, and has to accept she had placed too much importance on the _facts_ and not enough on the _effects_. That word alone sets off little warning chimes in the back of her mind she'd do well to examine, but won't of course. She also suspects the Headmaster isn't the one who would need to answer any of _those_ questions. 

No, that would be the Professor, and she doubts he'll willingly do so. Ever.

She slouches a little in her seat with the realisation. 

She's tired. The events of the past several days are catching up to her, and she feels the weariness in her bones. She muses if this is the sort of thing that even a good night's sleep won't help, somehow it feels like it, and considers the improbability of _that_ happening anyway. Ah, but then Luna had reassured her she'd sleep well tonight, hadn't she?

It seems... unlikely. 

She pictures the poor Professor in that tunnel again and shudders. And then it occurs to her, four years ago, he'd known _exactly_ what he was walking towards, and _still_ come to their rescue. Deliberately retracing his steps, having to recreate that terrible trip through the tunnel. And it seems to have ended much the same way, with a Marauder concussing him and a werewolf's snapping jaws. And a great deal of luck that they were otherwise basically unharmed.  
  


After a pause, she replies, "I had some other questions if you can still spare some time?"

He puts his silverware down, but his plate is far from empty and he doesn't push it to the side. She gets the feeling he isn't finished, just pausing. She takes the fact that it isn't Banished as hers was as confirmation of that assessment; the elf seems to see it as she does. 

"By all means, please continue." He's the picture of a kindly old grandfather, the epitome of avuncular benevolence, but she thinks her welcome is running out. 

She tries to keep her voice level, "Did you know what _they_ were going to do to him? Last night? In response to this?" She holds out her left hand towards him and places her thumb on the thin dark band around her ring finger that signifies her, _their bonding._

"'Know'? No, I couldn't _know_ how the bonding would be received." He forestalls her objections with a raised hand of his own, palm outwards, signalling her to stop. "Was what happened to Severus a strong possibility? Certainly. So were both more and less extreme responses. I believe you'll come to find that the only reliable characteristic of their responses is the unpredictability thereof."

She wants to ask how he could subject the Professor to that, but her sense of outrage that had burned so strongly last night... It's extremely muted under the Draught, and she feels certain her questions won't lead to satisfactory answers at any rate. She's learning her lesson from having focused on the wrong thing earlier. No, the only answers she believes she's likely to get he'd already explained when he'd suggested the bonding to her in the first place. 

And _accusations_ are only more likely to drive him put an end to this sooner rather than later. It's enough that _she_ knows what she thinks of the man. Of course with his skill as a Legilimens, it's unlikely he isn't aware of her feelings. 

She'd like to be reassured that this all ultimately _does_ help the Professor, that this wasn't for her benefit. She'd believed what the Professor told her Sunday about his reasons for wanting the bonding, she really had. Maybe she should have tested that again now that she had their emotional bond to tell her if she was right in doing so. Maybe that would have made the crucial difference. But she highly doubts the Professor would have appreciated such... transparent mistrust. Most assuredly the things Madam Pomfrey told her about his family have helped convince her some, reinforcing that belief. But there's still some doubt remaining. 

Her doubt might not have lingered on. It probably _shouldn't_ have even. Normally, she suspects she would have been convinced by now. The arguments and claims should have been sufficient... Except last night had been... _horrifying_. Mind numbingly so. 

Honestly, she'd _love_ to know, she _needs_ to know, that _she_ wasn't the reason he'd been tortured last night. It had been bad enough he'd risked his life saving her Friday...  
  


But she really doesn't think Professor Dumbledore can give her any answer she would trust. She _might_ believe him if he said it _had_ been her fault. Might. But certainly not if he stood by his original claim that the bonding had been in both their interests. Her inability to believe the answers renders her question pointless. 

So she tries to focus on practical concerns. Things that could perhaps make a difference moving forward.  
  


"We put some time into constructing a list of reasons for this course of action." Her fingers wiggle and her thumb returns to stroking the ring. "Why he'd have agreed to it." Albus wonders briefly about that, but then quickly lands on Severus' reason for doing so. "Were his reasons, his justifications inadequate?" 

He probably has no way of knowing what they were - she wonders if the Professor had even had a chance to make a report during the course of the day - but that's not what she's after. He senses it and waits for her to work out what precisely she wishes to know. 

She has to swallow before she can continue, but screws up the courage to press on, "You said 'less extreme' responses were possible. Had we found... more _satisfactory_ explanations, would that have made a... difference?" Her voice drops, breaking on the last word, and he understands her concern immediately. 

"No, my dear." He's almost gentle. "I doubt anything could have been done to have made a difference. That's something we have little influence over, how Riddle responds to any one thing on any given day. I appreciate how difficult that is to accept." Merlin, for someone with a phial of Peace in her, she looks miserable. 

He takes pity on her and tries to reassure her. "Severus has been at this for a very long time. In some senses, it's a role he's played for over sixteen years now. He's _extremely_ good at what he does. If there had been _anything_ to be done to affect the result, you may rest assured, he did it."

She looks _very_ uncomfortable, but then, she's naturally not in the best place herself. Her own ordeals lately have been plenty harrowing and having had to experience what Severus went through last night via their bond... Well, she's been badly shaken, and would be so now save the Draught Severus no doubt supplied. 

Albus thinks about what he can say to help her at this point. He's not the least bit averse to lying, of course, but he thinks the truth will serve him better here. "I understand your concerns. I won't lie to you, the work he does is incredibly dangerous. But I can assure you, there hasn't been a single instance, not one, where I feel he _hasn't_ achieved the best possible result. No qualifiers. Not the best _he_ could do, but the best _anyone_ could have done. Do you understand? He _really_ is that good."

She's decided she doesn't trust the man, but she finds herself _believing_ him. It doesn't _feel_ like wishful thinking. She begins to become a little more hopeful. 

"I would be surprised, Madam Snape, were you able to help him in any significant way when it comes to that." His hand goes up again to stop her protest, "That's not a reflection on your capabilities, but on _his_. There really _isn't_ room for improvement. 

"But beyond the benefits the limitations of the Fidelity Vow provide him," he begins, knowing full well she was never convinced, "what you _may_ find yourself able to do is provide some moral support. The nature of the work he does means he doesn't have people on his side. He can't. _Any_ support you are able to lend could be of help."

She looks highly dubious, and he chuckles, in part because she _herself_ had claimed she needed to learn more about Severus to provide 'more constructive support'. He hadn't thought she was convinced of that at the time; it struck him as specious. He takes her disbelief now as proof. But perhaps she'd meant it in a different sense. She's a Gryffindor, undoubtably she thinks this is all about _deeds_...

"I don't mean to suggest it will be an _easily_ accomplished thing, quite the contrary, merely a _possibility_. If you are looking for constructive things to which to apply yourself, _that_ is something I am convinced you are eminently qualified to do. Almost uniquely so. And believe me, he _could_ use the support." 

There's a sharp pang of guilt as she thinks about how she'd stormed out of quarters, _'You are not to be trusted...'_ Goodness knows, she'd had provocation... But perhaps he was in worse shape than she was, having only just been _tortured_ again, nearly _killed_ for the second time in days, and maybe, just maybe, she could have, _should have_ turned the other cheek. Dug a little deeper and been more tolerant. More understanding. At least chosen her words more wisely. 

She sighs at the thought. 

She could have simply _left_. She probably _should have_ when she'd recognised the state he was in. At the latest once he'd taken his potions. But no. She'd been so pleased he was speaking to her, eager to tease as much information from him as she could, and so she'd stayed until she'd gotten her knickers in a twist and then bitten his head off. Well, for her standards anyway. Heavens, she'd practically _flounced_ from their rooms. _So_ mature. 

She has no intention of discussing _any_ of that with the Headmaster, but she considers what had led to that... memorable demonstration of the Vow's failings and soon has her next series of questions in mind.

"I have two immediate thoughts as to that. I still believe I need a better understanding of what he's facing and what matters to him, certainly if I'm to be able to provide that support. And because it apparently functions only on a _relative_ basis, I really need to understand where the dangers he's facing lie for the Loyalty Vow to function properly."

"You mean to suggest it is _not_?"

"I seem to be having some... difficulty with how the Loyalty Vow is supposed to work. Yes."

That gets her raised brows. It was probably the least she deserved. "Didn't you just assure me you were pledged 'to be loyal to him'? That you couldn't, how did you put it? 'Subvert his goals'?" Professor Dumbledore asks her. The portrait lets out a soft snort. She finally steals a peek and recognises Sirius' great-great-grandfather, Phineas Nigellus Black. He catches her looking and smirks slightly at her, raising one brow expectantly. 

She refuses to let the Headmaster's dig get to her. "I needed to know something." 

"No. You _wished_ to know something," he corrects. "That's hardly one and the same thing."

She shrugs, "Do you always tell the complete truth?" Professor Black chuckles heartily at that. He sits there behind the Headmaster, nodding his approval and smirking broadly at her now. Professor Dumbledore pretends not to notice it at all, ignoring him thoroughly. 

"If you are having issues with the Loyalty Vow, I can scarcely supply you with any crucial information," he objects quite reasonably. 

"I understand that. It's why I mentioned it."

"Ah. Well, it was good of you to mention it..." 

"Trust me, I'm not trying to deliberately endanger the Professor. The information I have to date, is, as I see it, known to both sides. I believe him to be a double agent working for the Order. _They_ probably believe him to be a triple agent, and what _I_ think I know is what they'd _expect_ me to. There's no risk there. 

"But to support him, I need to understand more, and therein lies a risk, probably a substantial one without the Loyalty Vow functioning better. Except it won't unless I understand those risks, and I _can't_ without more information. It's cyclic, a vicious circle, but as I see it, if I can come to grasp the situation before it's put it the test, then that would be the best way out."

"Well, I'm relieved you've given it some thought." It's snarky enough, but not nearly as effective without the Professor's sardonic eyebrow. If that's the best the Headmaster can do, she isn't impressed. "And you feel we should simply give you all the facts then? Because you can Occlude sufficiently to make it worth the risk to Severus' life?"

"No. I'm not claiming I can, but I know how the Oath works, the one you had me take that keeps me from speaking of Friday. And I've seen it in play with the Professor. I assume the Vow would be stronger, it just needs to... work." She finishes a bit weakly, because she can hardly claim with any certainty that the Vow will defend the information she only _suspects_ would help it to function as intended. If she's mistaken...

"Madam Snape, you will simply have to accept that you don't know what can be dangerous to him, and he _is_ in a great deal of danger. I can't believe these past few days wouldn't have taught you that. _Anything_ could prove lethal, revealed at the wrong time to the wrong person..."

"You were counting on uncertainty and _doubts_ keeping the Vow active?" He doesn't respond. She laughs, but it sounds bitter, "So was the Professor. He hadn't expected the emotional component to the bond. It's thwarted his strategy. 

"Quite thoroughly as it happens. 

"But _you must have known_ it would happen. You must have included it in the Vows..."

"That's not quite how it works. It doesn't always take hold. The Vows allow for it, enable it to happen, but they don't _cause_ it. They can't make it happen. It was a spot of good fortune."

" _Good fortune_? _How_ is that good fortune if you were both relying on _doubt_ for the Loyalty Vow to work?

"Let's assume, for the sake of argument, you never provide me with a single bit of information again." He looks very much like that's _precisely_ his plan. "I'm still learning, rather a lot in fact, via that bond. I know what they did to him yesterday, for example. Maybe not the actual Spells cast, but the harm it did to him. How he felt. And he doesn't seem able to lie to me. In the longer term, I'm sure I should come to know quite a bit that way. Which puts _him_ at risk. And you yourself said the Loyalty Vow was necessary so that _I_ wouldn't be at risk. 

"So I think we have a real problem here."

He's silent for a while. He _had_ been relying on the Vow to sort this, and this is indeed a non-trivial problem. But she's coming along nicely, and he hasn't even had to manufacture any guilt... Well, any further than announcing their bonding and forcing Severus to report to Riddle yesterday. But, yes, she's meeting his expectations almost ideally. All except for this _very_ significant stumbling block. He mulls it over for a while, taking so long she becomes unsure he'll reply at all. 

"Severus joined the Death Eaters as a boy, when he was younger than it would seem you are now, in fact. He feels a strong degree of guilt over some of the things he was involved in at the time." She looks slightly panicked for a moment, or what passes for it under the Draught, he recalls why she might be, and hastens to reassure her before she has to try to work any of that out for herself. 

"The environment wasn't nearly as bad back then. I can assure you, things have become much worse. I don't for a moment believe, given a clean slate and a chance to do everything over, that they would hold _any_ attraction for him as they exist today." That may or may not be true. The situation had been complicated at the time, he's able to acknowledge that. _Now_ at least. But it seems... provident to claim this is the case, and it _is_ true to say they've become radical enough to have possibly lost all appeal to the boy Severus had been. They certainly hold none for the man he's become. "They're hardly recognisable, in fact.

"But that guilt means to some extent he believes he deserves what they do to him." She pails at the thought. "You've said you know what they did to him last night. I can assure you, he most certainly _does not_ deserve that. _Nothing_ he's done would justify that. But in addition to his determination to see them fall, that belief of his may make it easier for him to survive their abuse. Do you understand?" She nods, but it's a bit feeble, and she's very pale. Without the Draught, he probably couldn't even have this conversation with her. But she's taken it, and he's not one to pass up an opportunity. 

Truthfully, at this point it's more likely Severus survives the Death Eater's mishandling because it's necessary to do so to avenge Lily Potter, but Albus has promised not to reveal that, and that truth wouldn't help gain Miss Granger's assistance. But the lack of accuracy of what he claims isn't a hinderance in the least. And it's not entirely wrong, merely... incomplete. 

"Unfortunately, that conviction of his, that he deserves to be punished, extends beyond their treatment. I've admitted it should prove difficult indeed to convince him to accept any support from you. But that bond of yours should make that a far sight easier than it would otherwise be. 

"Acceptance will undoubtedly be made a great deal more probable if he is able to _trust_ you. If he can't lie to _you_ , I very much doubt you can lie to _him_. It will help him come to trust the support you offer. And I meant it, Madam Snape. He truly needs some."

And just like that, she's back to feeling guilty. She supposes she'd been anything _but_ supportive earlier. No, when he'd been in a remotely decent mood, she'd harassed him with questions until he wasn't any longer (she's completely overlooking that _she_ was the reason his mood had _been_ decent), and then made clear that she was putting him at even more risk than the circumstances that had quite evidently come terrifyingly close to causing his death. Twice. Within a week. That must have been a _great_ consolation to him. Truly a source of _comfort_ and that apparently much needed _support_. 

No, that wasn't good at all...

Somewhat resignedly, instead she asks the Headmaster, "And what good does that do if the Loyalty Vow doesn't work as a result?"

"Consider the Potters and Pettigrew. What trusting the wrong person meant for them. Severus' situation is far more precarious than theirs was." She's really not finding this remotely consoling. "There is not a member of the Order who is so regularly in such a dangerous position." Oddly, _that_ doesn't help either. "Would you accept that as true? After what you've come to learn of his treatment at their hands Friday and yesterday?" She nods immediately, ever so grateful she took the right Potion this time, and he proceeds.

"No matter whom he ultimately serves, he spends a great deal of time amongst enemies. And because he is employed as a spy by both sides, there are people in each camp who distrust him. He's nearly as much at risk from fear and ignorance on his own side as from the other. Once you come to accept that, to realise that the wrong word in the wrong ear puts him at greater risk... That belief on your part will make the Vow work."

She is a vision of doubt and Albus can't understand it. Everything else is going according to plan. Perfectly so. Better than expected even. He'd anticipated Severus would have fared worse yesterday and was pleased to see him in what, superficially at least, appeared to be better shape than he himself was this afternoon. _She's_ more than meeting his expectations, willing to try to understand Severus, engage with him, possibly support him... He hasn't a _clue_ what went wrong with this Vow. Everything else had worked so well...

He'll need to give this some thought, because she's correct, it's a very grave problem indeed.

* * *

  


Hermione sits there trying to figure out where she has gone wrong, but she just can't pin it down. She'd felt how the Oath worked it's restrictive magic on her, seen the Professor subjected to the same... It doesn't make any sense to her. She thinks the Headmaster agrees it's serious. It doesn't feel like more of his smoke and mirrors. She's at a loss. 

He's closed his eyes, apparently also lost in thought, sitting there mulling it over, and she tries to think of some of her other questions. 

She'd like to know more about bonds. She doesn't fully trust his statement about the emotional link. Just because the bonding Vows don't _guarantee_ it happening doesn't mean he hadn't selected Vows that made it _possible_. As a matter of fact, she's practically _certain_ he had, not that she as a lick of proof to support that suspicion. But she doesn't imagine asking him will get her any closer to the truth. 

She'd like to know more about the rings; Ginny had seemed to think they were significant. She supposes she'll find any answers to that embarrassing, and even if they didn't need to be, Professor Dumbledore seems to like leaving her at least a little wrong footed. No, that's something she'd prefer to have from a book, thank you very much. 

_That_ , however, is something he _should_ be able to sort for her. 

"Professor, would you be willing to authorise me to do some research..." But he doesn't move as she speaks. He doesn't even look up. "Sir?" She tries. Nothing. She leans a little closer and realises he's fallen asleep.

"It's no use, my dear," one of the portraits tells her. Hermione turns and sees Professor Dilys Derwent, a much loved Headmistress from the eighteenth century, off to the other side of the Headmaster's desk. "He's been terribly tired lately. I'm afraid he's out for the time being."

Hermione sits there looking back and forth between the portrait and the dozing Headmaster. "Should I just go then?" It seems strange to slink from the room like that, and she _had_ hoped to get a permission slip from him for the Restricted Section. Madam Pince wouldn't _dare_ object to that...

"Well you're welcome to stay and chat with us a spell, but..." Professor Derwent sounds patently amused at the idea. 

"Enough prattle, Dilys. Don't give her ideas," Professor Black admonishes his predecessor. Turning to Hermione, he continues more gruffly, "So, girl, do you think you handled that well?" 

She blinks owlishly for a moment, because that half sounds like an invitation to stop for a chat after all. Admittedly a confrontational one, but he hasn't actually insulted her, which makes for an improvement. Professor Black isn't exactly fond of the Muggle-born... Considering one of his snorts earlier, she has an idea how she should reply to that. "Madam Snape," she corrects decisively. "Not 'girl'." 

Professor Derwent chuckles amicably at that and Professor Black rewards her with another snort. "Very well then. _Madam Snape_. And has the good Madam handled the matter of information acquisition well this evening, would you say?"

"Learning the details didn't make quite the difference I'd hoped it would, if that's what you mean..."

"I highly doubt it has," he chuffs. "What earthly difference could it make if he were dragged fifty yards or one hundred? If he needed one Episkey or three?"

" _That_ should make a great deal of difference, Phineas. Three Episkeys..." Dilys immediately objects. 

"Would make bloody little difference to the lad were he unconscious, and Madam Pomfrey would hardly Ennervate him before applying them. The woman is anything but a fool. You should know that." He chastises in return. 

"He could still go into shock," she grumbles, but he silences her with a dismissive hand wave, not that she seems the least bit offended. Hermione gets the feeling this is a well-established sort of interaction between them. It's a bit like watching siblings bicker. 

He turns his attention back to only living, breathing witch in the room, "That wasn't at all what I meant. You've recognised the additional facts haven't substantially changed anything, but you seem not to have noticed that the _Oath_ did. You appeared to be aware of at least some of the details from that evening before your talk with Albus. And yet now you find yourself not able to discuss even those. Well manoeuvred, young lady. Really, frightfully well done."

"Phineas," Dilys chides. 

Hermione's back to blinking owlishly. He's right, of course, not that she has any desire to acknowledge it. But it shouldn't matter as he obviously knows all too well that he's correct. She can now no longer speak of any of the things she'd learnt from Remus, Sirius, or even the things she'd gleaned from the Professor about that evening. 

Brilliant. 

She'd been better off _before_. 

She's not sure quite how she stumbled into that one, and considering she has the same sort of Oath limiting her with regards to Friday, she _really_ should have known better. 

Well, she can now speak to the Professor about it.  
  


He should be thrilled. 

She imagines the conditions under which that would be appreciated are very rare indeed. 

Perhaps she'll gift him another bottle of Firewhiskey. 

Ah! But then there was one amongst their wedding pressies. There's _that_ managed then. How easily that goes... 

"The _only_ person I was trying to speak with about that incident was only too aware of the facts but unable to speak of them. He found that frustrating, and now he won't have to." It sounds half convincing even to her. She's reasonably proud of that, or as much as the Draught allows. 

But Professor Black chuckles instead. "He found it frustrating that he _couldn't_ speak about it, you _knew_ this, and you _still_ took that Oath?" He sounds frankly incredulous. But when he puts it like that... 

Hermione's having a hard time understanding how she could let the Headmaster bamboozle her that completely. It certainly doesn't speak for her... what was it? 'Much vaunted mind'. And come to think of it, she'd failed to give the Headmaster a piece of it. She can probably blame the Draught for the latter, but the former... No, that was all on her. 

Just perfect.

Something about Professor Black makes her disinclined to admit he's right. Thoroughly. Probably the fact he so clearly doesn't seem to need her to. Naturally she objects once again, "My _bondmate_ was frustrated that he couldn't speak to me about it, and now he can. I'd say it's sorted. With a minimum of pain and effort. That's hardly a poor result." She sounds more convincing all the time. If she didn't know better, she'd believe it. 

As the only one of the portraits present to know the bonding is the result of anything _but_ an actual relationship between the two, Professor Black laughs now, "Because he wished to speak to you of all people about it? I _have_ met the man, you know. I've known him since he was a student." 

"Phineas," Dilys scolds. 

Hermione's face finally falls a little and Phineas relents. Socialised wolf that he is, he accepts the sign of surrender and stops his attack. He naturally hadn't known she'd taken the Draught of Peace. From where his portrait is hung, she seems to be doing remarkably well. Later he'll have to acknowledge that he misjudged her condition. 

More helpfully, he continues, "May I suggest in the future you exercise more care with taking Oaths? You do not have to accept terms as offered, you can negotiate or simply _refuse_. You almost always have options, Madam. Try not to forget that."

"No, I don't think I shall." It's yet another lesson painfully learnt. But the advice is good, as are Hermione's manners. "Thank you, Sir."

Phineas has a weakness for good manners. "Of course. Glad to be of service, Madam Snape."

He goes silent for a moment, and then very formally adds, "I must apologise for the treatment your bondmate received at the hands of my worthless great-great-grandson. I was unaware how far it had gone. Severus deserved better."

"Oh that's..." She starts and stops. She has no idea what it is. She almost wants to defend poor Sirius against the charge of worthlessness, but in this context, she finds defending him... difficult. And Professor Black is correct, once again it would seem, Professor Snape _had_ deserved better. Goodness had he ever. And Professor Black seems to be the only one to say so. She thinks about a more sensible response for a moment and then resumes more politicly, "There was nothing you could have done about it."

"No, most certainly not. I was hanging here long before he was born." He sounds indignant. " _Had_ I been able to do anything about it, he would not have been permitted to run amok like that. And who knows, perhaps he might still be with us today." There's a visible tightening about his eyes, as he turns to look away, and an unmistakeable sadness to his voice that has Hermione feeling she should ignore the harshness of a term such as 'worthless'. She thinks it's possible that the portrait mourns Sirius almost as much as Harry does. And in Harry's case, a fair bit of that had probably been down to guilt, the loss of the connection to his parents, and his disappointment over the fact he'd been relegated to staying at the Dursleys' again; it was all inextricably linked. 

His evident grief makes her feel better about the portrait. More kindly disposed towards the man. And for all his gruff nature, he _had_ tried to help her here. He's certainly taught her a valuable lesson.

"Would you both be so kind as to thank the Headmaster for dinner and his hospitality for me? When he wakes? I'll be on my way then." Hermione gathers her things and prepares to leave. 

Phineas nods his agreement, Hermione politely pretends not to notice there's still a tear in his eye, and he wishes her a stiff, "Good evening."

Dilys is warmer, as she usually is, "I'll be happy to. Good bye, my dear."

* * *

  


Once the door closes behind her, Phineas wipes his eyes and then calls out, "The coast is clear, Albus. You can put a stop to this sad bit of theatre. It's unworthy of the post."

"Oh, Phineas!" Dilys objects. "Let the poor man sleep."

"And you call yourself a Healer," he scoffs. "You of all people should recognise when someone is faking. The man's no more asleep than you or I. Or do you mean to say you didn't notice how he slyly kept that thing he calls a beard from landing in his plate this time? Hardly the work of a sleeping man in your century or mine.

"Aaaalbus," he calls again. "Albus! Come now, enough is enough." Complaining to Dilys, he goes on, "It's rather like dealing with an over-dimensioned five year old."

Albus opens one eyelid and looks about the room before opening the other. "Very well, I'm awake now."

Dilys shoots Phineas a reproving look, "See?" but he just snorts in reply. Albus isn't fooling anyone. Well, other than Dilys. 

Albus stretches in his seat and smacks his lips, doing his very best to look as irreproachable as possible. Phineas snorts again. "What was in her tea?" He asks very directly. 

"Milk, no sugar," Albus replies smoothly.

"And nothing else?" Albus merely sits there blinking innocently. "It's just that the witch seemed a little distracted. And she's usually quite sharp. So I ask again, what did you put in her tea?"

"Why, Phineas, you wound me. Nothing, of course. You saw me drink from the same pot." He takes up his fork and resumes picking at his supper.

"Hmm," is his only reply. He watches Albus eat for a while. The man seems far too satisfied with himself. He _is_ , actually, in part because he hadn't given Miss Granger a migraine with his Legilimenses and his magic seems to have recovered some. He probably has his nap earlier to thank for that. 

Reconsidering, Phineas enquires suspiciously, "And what was in the _milk_?"

"Phineas!" Dilys sounds scandalised. 

Albus simply laughs, "Nothing at all.”

“In her cup then?”

“Her beverage was untainted, I can assure you. As was her meal,” Albus responds evenly, but he feels prompted to expand on his answer. "But I believe she _had_ taken a Potion. Either a Calming Draught or possibly the Draught of Peace, I'd expect."

Phineas wrinkles his brow but nods, "Uh hmm." He doesn't sound entirely convinced. 

"Well, there you have it, Phineas," Dilys is quick to interject. "Poor lamb. And there you go pestering her with her supposed shortcomings."

"Unlike myself, Albus was apparently well aware she'd taken a Draught, had _need_ of it, and yet he didn't hesitate to regale her with tales of the horrors her bondmate has faced. Well done, Albus."

"With the Draught in her system, it shouldn't have been a problem."

"It will wear off eventually, and I imagine the information you provided will be fodder for a sleepless night. And I've never known _either_ of those Draughts to make the imbiber inattentive. That's rather the point of them, that they _don't_. That they _remove_ emotional distractions, enhancing rationality. Wouldn't you agree, Dilys?"

"Technically, you're correct, of course," the Healer readily concedes. "But I can't say I noticed her being particularly preoccupied."

"Perhaps that's how she's responding to the stress of the past few days," Albus offers with equanimity. 

As the only portrait to have an inkling as to what that might mean, Phineas now _does_ feel a little guilty that he'd given her a spot of grief earlier. The girl was certainly entitled to make the occasional mistake. But if no one teaches her the error of her ways, then she's easy fodder for the likes of Albus. Phineas had seen it as his duty. Not that it made it any less pleasant to fulfil it. 

"And to take another Oath off her, after 'the stress of the past few days'... Was that necessary? What possible reason do you have for leaving our poor Slytherin Head under that Oath anymore anyway?"

"Phineas, I could have removed it four years ago, had I thought of it. I could certainly have done so _now_. But leaving it in place today does very little harm and provides those two with a little more common ground. I thought I would do them that small favour."

"Albus, my good fellow, you're the very soul of generosity."

"But I'm not wrong, now am I? They haven't nearly enough in common, and now they have that little bit more. I believe it should help. 

"And, Phineas, it's not as though releasing Severus from the Oath will solve any of the associated problems. Realistically, those were all caused from it having been done at the time. And yes, I admit, that was my fault. While I regret that, I sincerely do, it was damage control plain and simple. I felt the risk otherwise to young Remus was more severe than any harm that Oath may have done to poor Severus. And I still believe that to be true. If I had to do it over again, I'd almost definitely make the same choice." Truthfully, he effectively _has done_ \- as recently as last Friday. 

"Severus' problems, the resultant issues, wouldn't go away if the Oath were lifted. And his current frustration appears to manifest from his inability to speak of it. Well now he _can_. With _her_. I found the solution rather... elegant."

"You weren't a hatstall, by any chance, Albus? I can't quite recall." 

"No, not a hatstall as such," Albus replies unhelpfully with a slight smirk. He looks a picture of sleepy harmlessness, but he turns now to go on the offensive. "I couldn't help but notice your input to my conversation with Madam Snape earlier."

"She seemed in need of a little guidance."

"And you were willing to provide it. Despite her... questionable heritage?"

"Now, now, Albus. Stop your shit-stirring." Dilys gasps softly. In her day, one didn't speak quite so... plainly. But Phineas continues without missing a beat, "It doesn't suit you. I'm very well aware of her dubious background, and the badges those students wear make that abundantly obvious were I not. But she's bonded to our Head of House. Anything less on my part would have been... untenable."

"In any event, Phineas, I greatly appreciate your self-restraint when I assured her I wouldn't lie to her."

"As you very quickly proceeded _not_ to lie to her, I hadn't even time to squeeze in a derisive snicker in between."

"Still, most kind. Quite helpful. But if you find yourself unable to exercise more restraint, perhaps I should have your portrait moved?"

"Moved?" Phineas barks out his laughter at that. "There's been quite a lot of that going about today." His portraits have hung in their places in the castle for nigh on three quarters of a century without anyone giving them a second thought. And here twice in one day, by _two different parties_ , he's being threatened with having them moved? Somehow he finds that amusing. 

"Do as you see fit, Albus. I certainly can't stop you. Then you'll simply have to seek me out the next time you mean for me to relay something to my noble ancestral home. I hope that won't prove too inconvenient for you."

"'Now, now', Phineas. I should hate to have to resort to such measures."

"I'm quite certain you mean that, if only because you shouldn't like to have to leave the comfort of your seat to pass along a message," Phineas chuckles, apparently absolutely unruffled by the threat. 

"Besides, you can't do that, Albus," Dilys adds with a good natured wink. "I'd rather miss him."

  



	80. 11 11t Tuesday - Evening in the Castle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hermione, the Bloody Baron, Neville 7G, Irma Pince, Theo Nott 7S, Daphne Greengrass 7S, Dennis Creevey 4G, Hunter Hutchinson 4S, Ella Wilkins 6S, Harper Hutchinson 6S, Pansy Parkinson 7S, Newton Kurz 4H, David Chang 4R, misc Ravenclaws 4R, Albus Dumbledore, Portrait Phineas Nigellus Black, Portrait Dilys Derwent_   
>  _Mentioned: Ron 7G, Peeves, Professor Minerva McGonagall, Colin Creevey 6G, Kevin 'Kev' Peterson 5G, Harry 7G, Ginny 6G, Romilda Vane 5G, Dhanesh Devi 6G, Kiera Kilkenny Devi 6G, Tracey Davis 7S_

Hermione stalks from the Headmaster's office muttering dark things about insufferable men and stupidity. There's not nearly as much feeling to it as there would have been without the Draught, but she's still rather annoyed. At least on principle. There's a certainty now that the _real_ annoyance will come later, and how, and as with most things, she's endeavouring to get a jump on it. 

The results aren't remotely satisfactory, but presumably healthier than the alternative. 

It's almost impossible to become particularly irritated on Peace, not that it stops her from trying. Not at all. In that, she's almost a model Gryffindor. The generally accepted impossibility of a thing is hardly an argument against _attempting_ it in the Tower. But she's left with a feeling she should be brimming with righteous indignation that just... doesn't seem to want to take shape. 

That would probably be irksome, she can't help thinking, were she capable of being _irked_. Obviously, _were_ she capable of being irked, she probably wouldn't have to be annoyed about not being more annoyed either. She decides the Draught takes some getting used to, and resolves to stop fighting it as much. Somehow this seems to be defeating the point.  
  


The stupidity bothering her right at the _moment_ , of course, in stark contrast with that which had _actually_ irked her no end when she began her trip _to_ Professor Dumbledore's rooms, is purely her _own_. She can't believe she's been taken in by the wizened, conniving old... 

Well, yes. _Him_.

Hardly speaks for her to have fallen for _that_. 

_Again_. 

Later when she's lying in bed, after the Peace has worn off, and she's failing to fall asleep, she'll draw the comparison between herself and the Professor and be hard pressed to say which of the two of them had demonstrated more stupidity today. It really was a close thing. Her frustration with her own unsatisfactory performance, however, will tip the scales in his favour. It had truly been a _poor_ showing on her part. Very sad indeed.  
  


Had she _not_ had the Draught in her currently, had she been more upset, perhaps her muttering would have been more explicit, she might have gone into just a little more detail. As it is, the Baron, who floats along invisibly beside her will draw a few incorrect conclusions about the men who've upset the witch this evening and just whose stupidity she might mean. 

Closed mouth individual that he is, it goes without saying - much as his thoughts, in fact - that _that_ won't become all too apparent as he keeps his own counsel in this as in most things. Which isn't to say it won't provide the motivation to... manage certain situations as he proceeds to in the days to come.  
  


Quite thoroughly distracted by her thoughts, Hermione's steps never falter as she enters the library, and the Baron is pleased to note she hadn't hesitated. He supposes he... hopes... 

Yes, it does feel a little like _hope_ , he thinks. 

Well, then he hopes she won't allow recent events to sour her on the facility. He suspects that would be a grave misfortune for the apparently quite studious bondmate of the Head. The very fact she had been on her way to the library when the initial incident occurred, on a _Friday evening_ it should be noted, would seem to speak to that scholarly nature. 

He approves. 

He settles in to wait for her to reemerge. He has no... plans for the evening until the Slytherin Prefects begin their patrols. He had happened to overhear a couple of Hufflepuffs making arrangements to... meet in one of the alcoves after curfew; he expects that should prove... fruitful. The portraits have reported that Peeves has made himself at home in the vicinity of the Gryffindor tower. He suspects he knows why, and after the disgraceful display on the part of certain Estrays today, he is more than willing to let that... play itself out. 

In fact, if that situation continues overlong, he may have to encourage Peeves to... keep his focus. 

Peeves _is_ capable of focusing on a thing with all the sharpness of a damascene blade the Baron had once owned - not that he can think of it without a still perceptible flinch - and yet the poltergeist is every bit as capable of forgetting his business from one minute to the next. In this, although presumably very different in nature and _certainly_ in capabilities, Peeves is not that different to the Baron, the Friar, or even Miss Ravenclaw, not that the Baron likes to think of... her. 

This ghostly diffusion, this drifting of attention comes with age, and they are all... quite old. But with a bit of concentration, with a modicum of encouragement, well, Peeves' attention can be directed, much as his own can. 

No, if the thoroughly objectionable idiocy from today is ongoing, if the harassment of the witch doesn't cease, he will _personally_ see to motivating the Poltergeist. 

He can be... convincing. 

The Baron almost smiles to himself as he floats there. Waiting.

* * *

  


Hermione eschews her usual seat to take one closer to the Restricted Section. Like a child (or certain Headmaster) banned from Honeydukes, she sits there for a few minutes staring at the books, so close and yet so far. She _should have_ asked that Headmaster for a pass as soon as she entered his office, hang it all. 

She puts the books she'd brought from chambers on the table before her, firmly resolved to answer the Professor's challenge to find a Charm to Banish Crook's fur. It may not be a matter of any great significance. She can think of a couple things she'd rather... No, a half a dozen. A _half a dozen_ things she'd rather be pursuing...

For instance, right about now she'd _really_ like to learn a new Privacy Charm, she thinks with some chagrin about the Baron's critique...

But the Professor had set her his task, and she means to do it. To... exceed his expectations. Except she's quite sure she _hasn't_ done in as much as she hasn't solved the problem yet. That really doesn't seem like her. 

What also doesn't seem like her is the difficulty she appears to be having trying to concentrate on her undertaking. Her attention drifts, and she's staring at the inaccessible books once more.  
  


Right now she doesn't think she feels like asking the Headmaster for anything ever again. Undoubtedly, that feeling, too, will intensify without the Draught. She wonders how long her resolve will hold as she glances back to the spines of all the books she is certain, absolutely _certain_ , hold the answer to any question she could dream of asking. This evening anyway. And then she wonders how much it would cost her to ask the Headmaster for a favour. She's not sure she can afford his price. 

She really hasn't fared well against him these past few days. 

She turns back to the books Professor Snape had selected for her and puts Luna's Searching Charm to thorough use. 

It's surprisingly unhelpful this time.

* * *

  


Between fruitless searches for terms in the books and yearning glances at unattainable tomes, she finally has some quiet to think about things, and whether she wants to or not, she does. She finds her thoughts turning time and again to her reaction to Nott as she evaluates her encounter with the Slytherins in the corridor, if one can call observing passers-by an 'encounter'. (She decides she properly _cannot_ , not that it stops her. Probably because it seemed _that_ significant somehow. If she insists on being pedantic, and she _usually_ does, it may have been more of a brush...)

She doesn't really understand her response. 

This afternoon - after initial difficulties; she can admit it, it hadn't been instant - she had been able to conduct a conversation with Nott. She has no doubt Davis' and later Greengrass'... _Daphne's_ presences had made a real difference. And yet for all the difference _they_ had made, not long after, she'd accepted Nott's escort from Arithmancy to DADA, and the Slytherin witches were nowhere in sight. No, they weren't, and she'd actually had quite a lively discussion with him about Transfiguration. She has no doubt that Hannah's company was to thank for much of her ease during that exchange, but still... 

Far more bizarrely, she'd allowed Nott, Malfoy and _Goyle_ to escort her to Herbology. And here again, she's not entirely sure why she feels the need to emphasise 'Goyle' in her thoughts. He'd been no more eager to give her that Potion Friday than Nott had been. 

No, the driving force had definitely been _Crabbe_ , the one who'd _brought_ the cursed stuff in the first place, and kept insisting... Her thoughts don't linger on Friday long, they generally don't if she can help it, quickly shifting to the far preferable memory of Crabbe in the corridor. She thinks of him crashing into the armour and the blood on his head with some satisfaction. 

And even if Goyle hadn't put up as much resistance as Nott had... She allows that emphasis of hers, and her surprise at his assistance today, is probably the result of a long held prejudice she has against him. Not that that realisation will change much for the time being, that's asking too much, but it's probably a start.  
  


It's not just Goyle, though. She _really_ can't seem to stop throwing them all in one cauldron...

* * *

  


Albus casts a Tempus and sighs. He's tired, but not exhausted, which today makes for an improvement. Dinner will have helped. He'd forgotten how much teaching takes out of him. But there's nothing for it, it's time. 

He rises and gives his office a quick once over, trying to decide if there's anything he should bring...

He doubts anything would help. 

No. He has an irate Muggle parent to confront. If the owls sent today were any indication... The meeting won't be pleasant. 

It can't be helped. 

With a twist he once again makes use of the Headmaster's privileges and Disapparates on the spot.  
  


"You shouldn't push him so," Dilys scolds Phineas from her portrait once Albus is gone. "You know how he gets."

"It needed doing," he objects. "He shouldn't have done that to her. And _someone_ needed to say something," he complains with a pointed glance towards Armando's portrait where their colleague is pretending to sleep. He's usually so quick to accuse others of shirking, but somehow when it comes to Albus pulling yet _another_ fast one, he suddenly holds his tongue. And, Phineas can't help thinking, _especially_ when it's at the expense of a Slytherin, even if only by marriage...

"What's he going to do? Have me stashed in some dark cupboard?" Phineas chuckles. "Let him. I can wait until the next the next administration. I would ask that you be so kind as to remind them to fetch me at that time, however," he adds a mite superciliously. Besides, everyone always forgets his extra portrait in the Grand Staircase. He's not particularly worried. Dilys just shakes her head in reproach. But then she's done that for decades now. 

Phineas and Dilys move to continue their discussion over a friendly game of chess in Walter Aragon's and Brian Gagwilde's portrait, nudging the two wizards from the table to do so. They don't mind and are glad of the company. Walter's so glad of the visit, in fact, that he fetches a bottle of sparkling wine for the occasion, the vintage proves lovely, and soon they're in the midst of a vigorous game of fizz buzz.  
  


They're still at it when Albus returns.

* * *

  


Searching for 'fur' had been beyond useless. 

Hermione slouches a little but keeps at it. 

'Vanish' is only mentioned in two of the four books, in both cases with regards to making unsightly spots disappear. And in the second book, it's also used in a... poetic bit of phrasing to charm collars to guard against the need to recover a lost pet, or at least simplify the process, as 'Crups have been known to vanish from time to time, heeding a call, the insightful owner might suppose, that mere witches and wizards cannot hear...' 

_Perhaps the frequency was just too high_ , she quips to herself in slight annoyance. It's her least favourite book of the bunch. She returns it to the bottom of the pile, but as she continues to apply the Searching Charm to that book, that gesture really doesn't do any more than make her feel better for a moment. 

Some days, however, that's enough. 

'Depulso' isn't mentioned at all, in _any_ of them, she wonders if the Charm, _assuming_ there _is_ a Charm for Banishing fur, predates the actual Banishing Charm and therefore wasn't recorded with reference to a later Spell. She checks the publishing information, but no, the books are far too recent... Even if the Charm she's seeking _had_ been created earlier, there's no reason not to describe it more sensibly in later works. At least not if one assumes a logical disposition on the part of the author. 

That may be asking too much. 

'Location' is used in only one of the books, but only in connection with a Spell that keeps housepets restricted to a specific location. 'Spot' is used in three of the four books. Repeatedly. In every instance she finds, it's either about those 'spots' in need of 'vanishing', or teaching one's Crup to go to his spot. Female Crups, she decides upon that discovery, must be born with the innate knowledge of how to do so, or... she decides she likes this version better, it's only the males who need to be put in their places. 

That puts a slight smile on her face. 

She wonders what term the fourth book uses instead of 'spot', and is curious enough to look. She consults the table of contents and flips to the chapter on house breaking one's pet. Ah. 'Stain'. 

With the speed she can skim through a book, and the fact she's effectively limited her search to just these four books for starters, she'd almost definitely be better off working her way through them as she usually does. Naturally she doesn't. She couldn't explain it if she tried. She's committed to this approach, and she means to see it through. The fundamental problem with any of her searches is that it simply tells her to search any or all of the four preselected books. That's hardly exceedingly useful. 

But Hermione can be stubborn.  
  


Terribly late in the process, she has an idea. _So_ late she finds it embarrassing. Or close enough; there's still the Draught after all. But it may have been as long as _half an hour_ ; _that's_ how long it seemed...

She _could_ consider that Luna, who had been using the Charm longer than Hermione has and knows a House full of people, or at least two years' worth, who do, hadn't thought of or known of this workaround either, but Hermione's not in the right frame of mind for thoughts like that. It's somehow easier to chastise herself. 

Hermione uses a Geminio to duplicate each of the books. Geminios really aren't very reliable on wizarding texts. They have a tendency to not copy the actual Charm at all, and their texts fade far more rapidly than a typical duplication Spell would. Depending on the strength of the Protection Charms on the original works, within a few weeks one can find oneself left with mostly blank pages, and soon they, too, disappear. 

But as Hermione doesn't need the copies for long, that scarcely matters. And as she doesn't know the names of the actual Charms anyway, she won't be searching for them. Casting a Notice-Me-Not, she sets about ripping the copies of the books into their component chapters and performs the Ravenclaws' Inquiro to search each of the sections in turn. In this way, she hopes to narrow down the section of the book she needs to read. She can always refer to the original for the details of the Spell once she finds it.

* * *

  


She's been at it for almost an hour, resolutely searching for the Charm that may or may not exist with regular stops to stare wistfully at the books she isn't permitted to access, and all of her musings about the Slytherins leave Hermione uncertain how to act on the Baron's recommendation. And _that_ immediately leads to her being uncertain if it's fair to even call it that. He really hadn't advised her to take any specific action...

He'll be correct, of course; she thinks she's learnt that much. If he says this was an opportunity, then that will be the case. And she doesn't feel right about just ignoring that... 

So what was the problem earlier? 

It might be more accurate to say her reaction hadn't been to _Nott_ , but to a _small handful of Slytherins_. All cats are grey in the dark... Ultimately, the dim lighting, the empty corridor, being outnumbered, Hutchinson's physical violence - even though she agreed with the sentiment and the use of Crabbe as a target _absolutely and completely_ \- it had left her uneasy. 

She's entitled to be. 

And she doesn't have the greatest opinion of Hutchinson, although she's not exactly sure why. Honestly, she hardly knows him; he's a year behind her and as such, they've never had a single class together. There've been virtually no dealings at all. It's just Quidditch stuff really. Nothing concrete. Things Ron or Harry had said. They don't like him, so she doesn't like him by association. The transitive properties of disliking... Because those two are proving such excellent judges of character. Such paragons of virtue... 

She sighs. 

She imagines she'd responded, as viscerally as she can right now anyway, to the Baron's use of the word 'vouch'. Clearly 'vouching' for _any_ of the Snakes was an ask too far... But possibly, even if she can't _actively_ shore up Nott's position, she could avoid undermining it. If she doesn't have to initiate anything herself, perhaps she can see her way clear to not rebuffing any supportive overtures. 

That seems... wise. 

Heavens, with the way things have been going, she doesn't even feel like she can vouch for her friends....  
  


Which is when Neville arrives.

* * *

  


Theo returns from dinner with the others. 'Others' doesn't include the rest of the seventh year boys tonight; he was the only one of them who'd gone to the Great Hall for supper. He'd gotten a lot of contemplative looks from pretty much everyone else in their House; it's like they're trying to see into his soul. Harper was absolutely right, this is probably going to be a problem, a very real problem, and Theo has no idea what any of it is about. 

No, what he has is the thin hope that none of this was his fault. He's sort of eager to reassure his Housemates that he's innocent of... he doesn't know what, but it's proving difficult as no one, including himself, seems to have any idea what had _happened_. 

'Whatever it was, I didn't do it...' Blanket reassurances don't carry any weight, particularly as the older students have all worked out that he honestly has no way of knowing if he contributed to this mess or not. 

And what a mess it is. 

He's never known anyone to get bonded before, _none_ of them have, and this all seems an _incredibly_ extreme response to... Well, again, to whatever it was that no one seems to know anything about. 

Just perfect.  
  


He means to work on Friday's Arithmancy assignment. Tracey and Daphne are still willing to talk to him, to work with him on it, for which he's grateful. Not because he needs their _help_ , quite the opposite, he often has to explain the material to Daphne, but he's happy for their company and the tacit moral support it provides. At least those two seem inclined to believe in him. So that's, what? Two out of sixty-five? Two and a half, if he can sort of count Harper. He's off to a flying start then. How lucky he's got a good broom...

He plans on joining the girls in the common room, but he needs to get his text from his room first. He enters quietly, not wishing to disturb his roommates, although he sort of wonders if he even could at this point. Draco, at least, should be thoroughly Noxed. Dead to the world. He's not sure Blaise and Gregory will be doing so very much better. 

He has a bit of food Protegoed in his robes that he'd brought along for them for later. That small kindness had gone over well after lunch, and he'd liked the feeling very much. He's feeling a lot less confident now, though, after the Serpents and everyone's resultant misgivings. And looking around the room, he sort of doubts any of the three will be up to eat before breakfast, which renders the gesture rather useless. 

Well, he'd tried, not that the thought counts for much. 

It's probably more accurate to say they won't be up unless someone helps them out. But no one in the House has Pain-Relief, that avenue is closed - Merlin knows, they'd spent all weekend trying to scrounge some up for their migraines, which he's begun to question - and even if they _had_ some, he can't believe they'd give it to the boys at this point. And going by the reactions _he's_ getting from his Housemates, he very much doubts anyone will be applying any Healing Charms for _them_ either. 

There's not a whole lot he can do to help. He could perform a Rennervate, his is pretty good, but he suspects that would be more of a curse than a blessing. Draco would probably just demand that he Stupefy him for the night again; Theo _really_ doesn't need that. No, the best course of action seems to be letting them sleep it off. 

At least one of them is groaning fitfully as Theo slips through the room. He casts a faint Lumos on the off chance lighting a sconce would bother anyone after all and heads to his trunk at the foot of his bed to fetch the text. Maybe he'll review for Charms for tomorrow when he's done, but he's fairly well prepared. His homework lies finished with the materials he'll need in the morning. He tends to be organised that way. There are a _great_ many things he has no control over whatsoever. So much so he often finds it terrifying. He tries _very_ hard to control what he _can_. 

He puts the food he'd brought back with him under a Stasis Charm on his night table. Just in case. Plus he hardly wishes to walk around with that in his pockets all evening. And that's when he notices the letter on his pillow.  
  


Just as he hadn't questioned the Antispasmodic on his bedside table yesterday, he doesn't question the presence of the letter. That sort of thing leads to trouble, and he doesn't need any more of that. He doesn't ask from whom or why, only if it's _safe_. He can be a fairly cautious boy, and particularly after this evening's Serpents he's on guard. He casts a few Spells to detect any potential dangers. 

Once he's convinced it poses no threat - and won't he laugh at himself bitterly later, much later, for the error of _that_ assessment - he picks up the piece of parchment and discovers it's a letter from Narcissa Malfoy to her son. From the contents, he imagines Draco must have received it today somehow. Possibly it was hidden in some way in the letter he had from his mother this morning. That seems like something the Malfoys would do. 

It doesn't take Theo long to read it.  
  


And _now_ he knows what had happened.

And desperately wishes he didn't. 

How on earth could he have thought knowing would _help_? He's an idiot. A fool of the greatest magnitude. 

He knows now what led to the Muggle-born bondings. It all makes perfect sense. And no longer seems in the least like an overreaction. And he knows why _their_ Head of House had been forced to bond Granger. 

It's absolutely horrifying.  
  


It appears Draco had been correct, Professor Snape had indeed 'paid his respects' to their parents last night. And he had had to tell them _how the seventh year boys had **kidnapped** a Muggle-born classmate Friday night and forced her to take a phial of **Liquid Lust**_. 

He sinks down onto the bed as he reads it, letting out a sound normally associated with a badly wounded Crup. 

It went on to say the Potion had been improperly brewed and was presumably ineffective. It also said the Head had arrived before anything else happened. Theo isn't really paying attention by that point. The only thing _he_ learns from those lines is he can't have contributed significantly to... anything _remotely_ praiseworthy. That had been down to providence and the Head. He can't begin to imagine, doesn't _want_ to begin to imagine what he himself could have been _doing_ there to _begin with_. 

The questions Mrs. Malfoy goes on to ask her son _precisely_ mirror his own and have shot through his mind before he ever reads them. In fact, they don't go far enough. 

Who bought the Potion? _**Why**_? He can't understand how they could _do_ that to _anyone_ , never mind someone they've sat cheek to jowl with all these years. They have their lucky stars to thank that the Potion was rubbish. Just what had they _thought_ was going to happen? What had been their _intentions_? And what the hell was _he_ doing in that room? Had he known about it, _any_ of it when he joined them? 

_Why_ on earth had he _gone_?  
  


The letter doesn't say who they'd... 

It doesn't mention any names. He's not sure if the Head had even reported that aspect; Theo can imagine no one at the Manor would have cared. 

He feels like he's been kicked in the chest by a Hippogriff, and he can't seem to get any air. 

He begins to think of all the Muggle-born witches in their year. He's not entirely certain Mrs. Malfoy would have known enough details to have even gotten that right, that it was someone from their year. It could just have been a turn of phrase. He expands the list to include the sixth years. 

And then he hopes like hell it wasn't anyone younger. 

As though there were any consolation to be found in _any_ of it.  
  


He thinks he's going to lose his supper. 

He sits there feeling nauseous for a few minutes and then succumbing to the battle over his body, makes a dash for the loo.  
  


A few minutes and several Cleansing Charms later, he's back in his bed. He hides the letter in the drawer of his nightstand, applies a Notice-Me-Not for good measure, and then a rare Locking Charm on top of that. He may never open the drawer again. If he were capable of more rational thought at the moment, he'd probably have used a Permanent Sticking Charm, and then have had to ask himself why he didn't just Incendio the epistle. Probably because he knows he'll have to, _want_ to talk to Draco about this in the morning. 

He pulls the blanket over his head, and curls up into a little ball. 

He can't stop the parade of faces he keeps seeing. If it was someone from their year, she'd been in a _third_ of his core courses with him. And Merlin knows how many of the electives. Or how many of the N.E.W.T.s classes. He could be sitting next to her in all or none of his classes now. 

He's taking _eight_. There's virtually no chance she wouldn't be in some of them. Perks, Smith, whatever, and Jones are two of the least strong Muggle-born students, and he _still_ shares a class with both. 

He resumes the whining sound he'd made before.  
  


When Daphne comes looking for him a little while later, that's how she finds him, curled in the fetal position and whimpering. 

"Theo?" She calls out to him softly, not eager to wake any of the others after the evening they've had. They'll need the rest. She's not at all sure why they hadn't taken Draco to the Infirmary really. _Three_ Serpents! Merlin knows, that's where he belongs. But the others have told her she's being too soft. 

She's wrestling with it. 

It's hard to envision. Incredibly difficult. That her classmates could have done _anything_ so terrible as to cause the Headmaster to force their Head to bond a Muggle-born student. She can't imagine anything that would warrant that. And no one has ever accused her of a lack of imagination.

She knows it's gotten... 

It's not _good_ out there. She's not an idiot. But that's out _there_. She can't picture that her classmates, her _Housemates_... Except _of course_ it'll end up being her Housemates. It's not like _'they're'_ recruiting the Gryffindors... No. In the long run, these boys she's grown up with... But surely that was something that would happen much later? Not _here_? Not _**now**_.

She hears a low keening sound coming from a lump under Theo's covers and puts a gentle hand on it. "Theo?" She lifts the blanket to find her friend crying. "Theo? What's wrong?"

"You can't be in here, Daphne," he insists, wiping his face with the side of his arm. She uses a Tergeo and sorts it for him. He barely notices. 

"Don't be silly, _of course_ I can. If I _couldn't_ be, I _wouldn't_ be, obviously. It's still before curfew." That's more than just about her tendency to adhere to the rules, although she's generally quite mindful of them; there's a Charm in effect that guarantees she wouldn't be able to enter the boys' dormitories after curfew. 

He sits up a little and begins to stare wildly around the room. Daphne, his _friend_ , is all alone in a dark room with four of the five boys - he doesn't hesitate to count himself as one of their number - who had _dosed_ a fellow student with an _illicit Lust Potion_ just _days_ ago. She needs to leave _now_. She _can't_ be here. 

"You have to go, Daphne. _Leave_. _Now_." There's something desperate about him that makes her a little worried. He seems to be missing, completely, that three of those boys are down for the count and _he_ has never deliberately been anything remotely like a threat to much of anyone. 

Daphne's also in _much_ better shape to deal with him, with _any_ of them just now than they are. He'd very likely have his arse handed to him on one of the house elves' fanciest platters if he even thought about giving her grief. Garnished with sprigs of parsley if she had any say. People forever underestimate the kind and good humoured types. Daphne's fast with her wand. 

"Theo?"

" _Now_!" It sounds tortured. He's in quite a state. She assumes some of their House have - very unfairly - taken their anger with the other seventh years out on the only one available. It's very like Theo not to want her to suffer by association. He needs to keep clear of them until his roommates can take their deserved lumps. Until someone can sort this for him. 

There are tears in his eyes again, and she doesn't think long before acting. Before he can realise it, she's pointed her wand at him and a moment later she's cast the Somnolence Charm. His lids become very heavy and he flops back onto his pillow. She comes over and tucks him in, removing his shoes with a tsking sound, _wizards_ , stroking his cheek gently with the backs of her fingers and wishing him a good night. "Whatever it is, Theo, I'm sure it'll look better in the morning."

He's thankfully sound asleep before she leaves the room. It's probably just as well. His Housemates really weren't sure how to treat him anyway.

* * *

  


Hermione puts an end to her Notice-Me-Not and softly calls out to her friend. She's very eager not to do anything else to make matters worse with Madam Pince. She has a fleeting thought about whether she could be banned from the library entirely, before she rejects it. That's seems too much like the stuff of nightmares; she can't imagine that's allowed. 

"Hermione!" Neville hisses back in surprise, just a little too loudly. She waves him over to take the seat next to her, shushing him as she does so. Only Hermione can manage to make a reproach seem welcoming, and he half smiles at the thought. For a brief moment he decides his earlier worries about her were completely unfounded. And then his eyes widen as he takes in what seems to be the wreckage of several books before her. But this time, he doesn't ask. 

Looking at her more closely, he spots that her hair has taken on a volume that it only does when the wise tread very carefully around her. Neville doesn't actually consider himself wise, but in certain regards, he's a fair bit brighter than most in their House, at least when it comes to these things. 

Hermione puts a Muffliato in place; the Baron is correct, it _is_ a buzzy old thing. Neville recognises the hum and resuming his regular tone of voice instead asks, "What are you doing sitting over here?" 

"Pining after books," she explains, explaining nothing, and yet Neville decides it sort of makes perfect sense. If ever someone were to pine after the written word, it would be Hermione. Assuming there were circumstances to justify her not having those words in the first place, he rectifies the thought. "Would you happen to have a pass for the Restricted Section?" She enquiries in a flash of inspiration. 

"No, sorry. I just came down here to do my Charms homework for tomorrow."

"Did you need to look something up?" She's a little confused, because having already done the work, well in advance, in fact, she is quite certain that it had been covered completely within their text. There's always a niggling doubt in the back of her mind, however, that there _could_ have been something else to know. Something she had missed. She's having a little difficulty imagining Neville might be aware of it if she isn't - this isn't Herbology, after all - and then she feels a bit guilty, wondering if she's selling her friend short. 

"No, I just couldn't get any work done in the Tower." Hermione knows the feeling all too well. 

In contrast to this afternoon when he'd mentioned the study niche conversation from Friday, the one that had precipitated... _everything_ , her thoughts turn to instances, _many_ instances, when she'd found the Gryffindor dorm inconducive to studying, and she doesn't even flinch when she thinks about Friday. _That_ is the advantage to having taken Peace, even over two phials of Calming. Later she'll remember that, and tomorrow she'll be even less hesitant to take the Draught in a timely fashion. 

"Ron wouldn't stop whinging," he complains. "About Peeves," he's quick to add when her face falls slightly, and Neville could swear her hair might have actually crackled, although it's equally possible he's imagining that. It sort of has a reputation of its own. "That was bad enough, but then Colin told him he's basically stupid. Or illiterate." Hermione chokes out a laugh she tries to swallow, it doesn't go well and she winds up coughing. 

"You alright there?" He enquiries, a little concerned. There are tears in her eyes, but she waves for him to go on. She can just see the scene now... with her watering eyes... So he tells her how Ron had apparently helped himself to some stale bread in the Great Hall this morning...

"Oh, but that must have been Peeves' bread," she immediately interjects. "After breakfast?" Neville nods. "A highly decorative affair?" He shrugs. That detail hadn't quite registered with Ron. "Well, it'll have been Peeves' platter, or rather the one they use for his bread. For heavens sake, that's in 'Hogwarts: a History', it's hardly a secret." Given the _length_ of the book, Neville can hardly consider a _mention_ there _well documented_. "Why on earth would he go helping himself to that? Never minding the fact it's stale, I mean?"

"Do you know, that's pretty much what Colin said. I gather Ron was hungry."

"When is he not?" She rejoins. It doesn't seem to carry any undertones that would have him put a quick end to the story, so he grins and tells her the rest. 

"Yeah, only like I said Colin pretty much suggested Ron was ignorant. Sometimes it's like Colin thinks just because you're a pure-blood, you have to know all these things." Hermione can't help thinking she'd be blushing right about now without the Peace. Goodness knows, she's guilty of thinking just _that_ often enough. "I have to admit, _I'd_ never heard of it before, so I couldn't really blame Ron for not knowing, but he kept banging on about it, Peeves and bread and bread and Peeves..."

Involuntarily, the thought of Ron's boasts from this morning of being willing to take a Crucio crosses Hermione's mind, and here some stale viands had brought him to his knees. She may be smirking. Just a little. 

"And, well you know Colin. So he makes Ron out to be some kind of illiterate troll..."

"Never! Colin wouldn't have called him that!" She can't help defending her fellow Muggle-born Housemate. 

"Well, no, of course not, that's just sort of how Ron took it? But then that's all it took really. And then Kev goes and laughs himself silly over Ron, 'the poorly read troll'. Only Kev was drinking a Gillywater and half spewed it all over Romilda when he laughed, and she kicked off and attracted rather a lot of attention in the process... And Ron, he sort of... I guess he kind of lost it. Before you knew it, he'd hexed Kev and Colin, too, for good measure."

"Oh, Neville! _No_! Tell me that he didn't..."

"Sorry, Hermione. I have to tell you that he _did_..."

" _What_ was he _thinking_?"

"That was pretty much what Harry said about it. Now Ginny, she was more... direct." Hermione lifts a brow in query and Neville smirks and shakes his head, "I wouldn't _dream_ of repeating it in polite society. And probably not impolite society, either, for that matter. She's got a mouth on her, that one, and doesn't pull her punches. 

"So there's Colin sitting there on one of the squashy couches with an impressive rack of antlers on his head - eight points, I promise you, no less - nearly put out Dhanesh's eye when he tried to move, and Kiera's screaming at him to stop, to hold still, and finally she just goes and puts a Full Body-Bind on him, and, well, you know what happens then," Neville allows his forearm to thunk down inertly on the table in front of them, but tactfully avoids looking at Hermione as he mentions the Curse. She notices and assumes that's another blush she's been spared. "And then his brother Dennis sort of panicked and ran to get Professor McGonagall. I guess after last night's kickup, Ron had only just been done for hexing a classmate."

" _Classmates_ , actually," she corrects.

"Yeah, I was clever enough to be elsewhere for that. Well, it seems she gave him detention and a warning only this morning..."

"Well, he _is_ a Prefect and shouldn't be hexing other students..." She absolutely, _never once_ allows her thoughts to turn to Michael Corner and the Bat-Bogey Hex for even a _moment_ as she says it. 

Well, maybe just the one... 

"And I think _that_ was almost word for word what Professor McGonagall said," he chuckles. "You know the players too well. So after she sorted Colin - she had to send Kev to Madam Pomfrey, it was so bad - she _**really**_ let Ron have it. Gave him detention every evening before dinner for the rest of this week and the next."

"But that's when they have practice!" There's a hint of a smirk as the realisation sets in. 

"Worked that out so quickly did you? Took most of the others a bit longer. Yeah, so you can imagine how the team felt about that. A week and a half until the match against Slytherin, and Ron goes and does _that_."

"Holy Cricket. So what are they going to do?" 

"Well, the Slytherins have the second slot booked solid. So the team pretty much only has two choices, practice before breakfast, or replace him for the next match. And they haven't really got a reserve Keeper, so..."

"So the whole team is going to have to get up early for the next week and a half?" Neville nods. "Oh, they're going to kill him." 

"They certainly looked like it. Anyway I thought it wisest to get clear, so that's when I grabbed my stuff and left. Things were getting ugly up there."

"Oh, I bet they were. He'd better hope he does well the next match."

"I imagine that's pretty much his only chance to get back on their good sides any time this century."

"I guess he's lucky the century is almost over then," she giggles. "What did he hex Kev with?" Hermione's curiosity gets the best of her. 

"I haven't a clue. He looked like the fungus you find growing on the underside of a bit of bark left in the dark in dragons' dung for a number of weeks. Or if he'd drunk a Fungiface Potion and had Bundimun run riot over the top. Just without the eyes..." His fingers gesture in a circle around his face.

"Oh, that's one of Harry's." It occurs to her when she first saw him use it fourth year. Hmm. Yes. Her tongue runs reflexively over her front teeth. Well, she'd come out of that ahead. "He dug that up somewhere." 

"How fitting for that sort of fungus," Neville smirks, unpacking his learning materials. "So I still need to do my Charms assignment. Have you finished already?" He asks a little wishfully, assuming she has but hoping she wouldn't mind going over it again with him. 

She surprises him by digging about in her things, pulling out a scroll a scant six inches longer than required and handing it to him. "Yes, I did. Here you go, if you have any questions..." And she moves to return to her examination of the book fragments in front of her. 

It's strange, and he eyes her a mite warily. 

He hasn't asked for her homework. She hasn't lectured him about trying to attempt the assignment first himself, or against using her composition. No, she'd just handed him the answers. And she doesn't seem to want to continue working on it herself either. That's _really_ unusual for her. So much so, it makes Neville wonder. She _always_ revises again and again, she's pretty much _never_ done, not until the moment she turns her assignments in, and here she's barely written more than a few inches extra. Not that there's anything wrong with it, he amends, Merlin knows, he's having problems coming up with the required number of inches at all.

But still... 

He keeps glancing at her as he knuckles down, applying himself to the assigned task. He doesn't use her scroll until he gets stuck, turning to it when he needs a bit of clarification, but by and large managing on his own, but he appreciates her company. Hermione seems happy to keep casting the same kinds of Spell over the remains of the books in front of her, mumbling what he takes for some incantation quietly to herself, pausing now and again to stare at the Restricted Section. She wasn't exaggerating about the pining, he can't help thinking. 

They work in relative silence for a time until Neville gets stuck. He _could_ easily lift the answer from her work, she _had_ just given it to him, but it seems... wrong and _so_ not the point of the exercise and so he risks interrupting her and simply asks. 

She's too lost in her efforts to hear.

"I'm sorry, what did you say, Neville?"

"Sorry to bother you, but I couldn't quite understand why the Charm was applied this way? Would you mind, terribly, explaining it to me?"

"Oh, of course not," and she's off. If he understood half of what she said, he's lucky, but it's more than he needs and they're both smiling before she's through. _That_ looks more like the Hermione he knows. In another burst of inspiration she asks him, "Say, Neville, do you know a good Privacy Charm?" 

He raises a brow at her and gestures around them, "Well, this one? The one Harry learnt last year. Is that what you mean?"

She sighs. That would have been too easy. "No, I was looking for something more... subtle."

He chuckles, "Something likely to do the trick in Taylor's class?" There's a mischievous gleam to his eye and she thinks she'd probably have pinked at the reminder of how she, Harry and Ron had been caught talking during the lesson last month in DADA. _Fifteen points_ they'd lost altogether. _Fifteen_!

Somewhat routinely, and for her standards a smidge reluctantly, she corrects, " _Professor_ Taylor," although in his case she isn't sure he quite merits the title. Still, it's the man's position, and seems... proper. "Not for that express purpose, but yes. That did rather illustrate the Muffliato's short comings." It _had_ done, but she hadn't really grasped that until the Baron's comment earlier. Somehow she doesn't feel like explaining that. 

"No, sorry, I can't help you there."

"No, I didn't think so, but it was worth asking." 

Her eyes flit back to the inaccessible books and Neville asks, "Was that why you wanted to know if I had a pass?"

She nods as they return to their work, "Part of it."  
  


Neville is just finishing up and has begun packing his things together when she lets out a happy squeak. She really _has_ begun to squeak lately, she'll realise later with some annoyance. Of course, there are enough other things to annoy her then that that fact doesn't annoy her _much_. Mixed blessings. 

"I've found it!" She half chirps. "It was under 'receptacle'," she enlightens him, not that it makes anything clearer. Cautiously he nods and she goes on apace, "Basically they say you're Banishing the Kneazle's fur to a receptacle, which is silly as it could just as easily be a corner the way the Charm works, not that you would, that really wouldn't make sense, but you _could_ , so 'receptacle' is the wrong word altogether." Although secretly she can't help thinking she might need to keep one of those imaginary Thesauri she's so eager to gift to all and sundry (especially sundry) for herself. 'Receptacle'! She can't _believe_ she hadn't tried that earlier. 

Searching for 'point', 'place', 'position', 'site'... It all yielded no joy, straight across the board. Cutting herself a little slack, she acknowledges the thesaurus wouldn't have suggested 'receptacle' either. 

And naturally, the book she liked least had held the answer. Come to think of it, it had sorted the general Vanishing of the fur from the room and furnishings as well, too. _And_ the modified Impervius for one's clothes. She should have given the tome a closer look from the outset. 

Neville risks a glance at the book she's holding. "You've been working on finding a household _pet_ Charm all this time?" She could have added another who knows how many inches to her work for Charms class tomorrow, but apparently she's trying to find something for Crooks' fur. He's not sure what to make of it. 

She's had the half-Kneazle for years and never taken a particular interest in this before, in fact it's a bit of a running House joke that Hermione is rubbish at any and all remotely domestic Charms. Neville's assumption has always been that it's deliberate, if she _wanted_ to know, nothing would have stopped her, but the fact remains, she doesn't seem to care about them much. 

He's about to ask why the sudden interest when a voice like nails being dragged across a blackboard interrupts them.

" _What have you done to those books, you **vile** , degenerate girl_?!" Madam Pince in her patrols of the stacks has come upon them and on seeing the remnants of Hermione's Geminioed books strewn across the table, all colour leaves the already pale librarian's face. She lets out a screech so high in pitch towards the end there that Hermione can't help thinking it would do to summon those purportedly lost Crups. 

Instinctively, she expands the Muffliato to include the librarian; she wouldn't be able to hear Hermione's response otherwise unless she ended the Spell, and somehow this seems the better of the two options. She _really_ doesn't enjoy being the centre of attention. Embracing caution, a silent Notice-Me-Not soon follows suit. Goodness this promises to be embarrassing. 

"They're not the library's..." she hastens to clarify, for all the good it does.

" _Defiled! Violated!_ _**Ruined!**_ " The librarian almost wails. 

"No, no! The _library's_ books are _undamaged_..."

"I _guarantee_ you the consequences will be more terrible than _any_ you have ever _dared_ imagine..." Madam Pince has worked herself into a state, it doesn't seem to take her long, and Neville's inkpot, still on the table between them, takes flight and begins swirling in the air around them in ever tighter and faster circles about their heads, swooping in to try to smack Hermione. She keeps ducking and dodging, but the thing is speeding up, and she doesn't fancy her chances if this goes on much longer. 

This must be how Harry feels on the pitch. 

Or Ron when he's chased by Peeves and his loaves through the castle, some mischievous voice needs to add. 

"They're Geminioed copies! Not the Library's..." she tries to explain again, but at the mention of a 'Geminio', the colour that had drained from Madam Pince's face returns in a rush as she goes red with rage. Once, twice, the bottle connects with the back of Hermione's head and she lets out a soft grunt. 

"You Geminioed library books!" Madam Pince's indignation is palpable, she's practically apoplectic. Hermione really can't see the harm, it's not like the copies will last long at all, and where's the difference to the book being _lent_? But it seems an unwise discussion to pursue, certainly at the moment and possibly _ever_ with this particular individual. 

Madam Pince inhales to unleash a tirade of the first order on them both but before she can breath another word, Hermione's flicked her wand and the librarian goes quiet, standing there, blinking dumbly. 

"Let's go, Neville," Hermione whispers to him, snatching the ink bottle from the air before it can fall and handing it to him. "Hurry!" She hisses, as she rushes to collect her things, gathering the torn bits of the book copies as well as the originals, and then half dragging the still startled Neville behind her, bolts from the library.  
  


"What on earth was that?" He asks as the doors close behind them. Hermione says a silent prayer of thanks to anyone listening that she'd thought to include Madam Pince in their Muffliato. Goodness knows how many people might have noticed them otherwise. 

"Confundus," she answers, still feeling a little dazed at her brazenness. "I Confunded her." There. She's said it. It doesn't seem to make it any more real, but the painful lumps on her head say otherwise. 

She'd love to claim it was panic. It was not. To be able say that she'd lost her head, her apparently _lumpy_ head, and _that_ had seemed the only course of action... Except she hadn't. No, the Draught was clearly still working. This had simply been the most... expedient response. 

It's Neville's turn to stand there blinking dumbly. Hermione nudges him forward, eager to put distance between them and the library. When he speaks, it's to utter a stunned sounding, "We attacked a teacher."

Hmm. Yes. She knows the feeling. "No," she corrects firmly. " _I_ did."

" _You_ attacked a teacher," Neville adjusts, but still sounds fairly gobsmacked. 

"Not the first time," Hermione mutters. More loudly, _and_ pedantically, she adds, "And she isn't a teacher. She's a staff member," as she rubs the back of her head.

"You attacked a _staff member_..." Neville adjusts further. He's capable of responding somewhat dynamically should circumstances demand it. "I'm sure that will make _all_ the difference..." She shoots him a slight smirk. 

"Sarcasm? Neville!" She's beginning to smile now. 

"We're going to be in a world of trouble..." He half sighs and there's something stricken about him. 

"Nonsense," she objects firmly. "Don't be silly. If there are problems, you needn't worry, I'll own up to my actions. There wasn't a thing you could have done to stop me."

"Too right," he sighs again, thinking the little witch is sort of a force of nature. She'd acted before he'd even begun considering his options. "Maybe we should keep this between us, yeah?" He suggests. "Just not tell anyone? That seems like the best bet..."  
  


The Baron, following silently, invisibly, behind them, is inclined to agree.

* * *

  


They reach the Grand Staircase and Neville pauses. He's still obviously a little out of sorts, but he's a gentleman and he turns to Hermione and asks, "Would you like me to see you to your chambers?" A little unsure, he adds, "The dungeons, I guess?"

She gifts him a broad smile, "No, thank you, Neville. That's very sweet. But you're heading in the opposite direction and it's getting late. I'll be fine on my own," she adds, half thinking she probably _won't_ be on her own if she had to make a guess. 

"Alright, if you say so. How's your head doing?"

"Well, it certainly _hurts_ , but I'll survive." She reaches back to carefully check the damage. "I imagine I'll have a couple of mean eggs to show for it tomorrow."

"It sure looked like she clocked you good."

"She definitely did, I have to give her that. You can hardly fault her effort there." She winces as her fingers run over the bumps that have already begun to come up on her scalp. A headache will be sure to follow. 

With clear disapproval, Neville complains, "I don't think they're allowed to resort to corporal punishment..."

Thinking of Umbridge's Black Quill in their fifth year, Hermione answers, "That doesn't necessarily stop them. And I'm equally sure Confunding staff isn't permitted either."

"I won't tell a soul," he promises. "Feel better then, alright? Goodnight, Hermione." 

"Goodnight, Neville. I'll see you tomorrow," she replies, and he turns to head for the Tower as she makes her way to the dungeons.  
  


She hasn't gone far when a now familiar whisper softly tells her to, "Stop."

The Baron appears at her side, and beckoning for her to follow, directs her to a niche behind a statue. She does so without hesitation, but can't resist quipping, "For all the time we're spending in alcoves, people will begin to talk."

The _**look**_ he gives her in response is enough to make her want to giggle. She only just suppresses it as he holds up a hand, putting a translucent finger to his lips for her to be quiet. She can't help noticing that he doesn't request a Privacy Charm this time, which she takes as a bit of a dig. Naturally it isn't, but it _is_ a statement on how he views the... adequacy of her Muffliato. 

She hears the sounds of a scuffle almost instantly. Moments later a group of boys comes running into view, duelling. She tenses up slightly, and suspects her response would be far more acute without the Draught. Yes, somehow the association of a trip to the library, the relative darkness of the hour, the emptiness of the corridors and groups of boys causes a physiological response. As it is, her breathing changes noticeably, but not markedly. The Baron, however, can be a very good observer once one has his attention, and she's drawn it. 

Soon she recognises some of the boys, all fourth years, there's Dennis Creevey with the Kurz boy from Hufflepuff and they seem to be fighting against four Ravenclaws and the Slytherin Chaser's younger brother, what's-his-name Hutchinson. Five on two are some wretched odds, and Dennis really isn't the fastest wand in the bunch. Kurz doesn't appear to be either, and with the awkward way he's moving, he seems to have been hit by something or another, making matters worse. 

She sighs, a little heavily, but she throws her shoulders back and draws herself upright as she prepares to intervene. She _is_ a Prefect after all. Admittedly one who goes around hexing staff, but still... 

And it probably doesn't hurt that they're only fourth years. 

The Baron extends one of his ghostly arms in front of her as she makes half a move to go forward, and then, just a bit defiantly, she casts the Muffliato after all. Not that it's likely that any of the boys would notice as preoccupied as they are just now...

"There is no... need for you to take action," he tells her.

She points to the Prefect's badge on her uniform and tells him, "It's my responsibility."

"Madam, there are _seven_ of them." At the moment, he's not entirely convinced she's mastered basic maths. Lamenting some of the recent changes to the Hogwarts' curriculum, just last century in fact, he feels obliged to point that out. If that is _still_ insufficient, he will no doubt have to explain how seven outnumbers one. By a factor of seven to one, conveniently enough. She _should_ be able to grasp that. And here he thought the witch was supposed to be bright...

"But they're not all on the same side," she tries to object.

"That has a way of... changing when a new opponent becomes involved. And who amongst them do you anticipate fighting at your side if it came to that." She can't answer. She hasn't a clue what this fight is about. The Baron reads her uncertainty and nods. "Perhaps it would be... more prudent to simply sit this one out. Just let them settle it amongst themselves. No one will ever have to know you were here." 

She is patently unconvinced and he lets out a rattling sound she decides is a sigh of resignation. "If you insist upon doing something, then allow me to try to put an end to this for you," he offers.

There's something reluctant about his tone and the 'try' has her alert, and so she asks. She's learning. " _Why_ wouldn't that be the better option anyway?" He's a ghost. She really can't see that he has much of anything to worry about here. It's not like there's a basilisk in play. 

He's not... pleased to have to explain this to her, but on the other hand, if she understands his strengths and weaknesses better, he can no doubt more effectively assist her. Still, he doesn't... enjoy pointing out those deficiencies. A little reluctantly, he explains, "In my efforts to... discipline the students, I rely... heavily on... intimidation. In my experience, and I have a great deal of it, it makes _far_ more sense to... intimidate students when they're in a frame of mind to actually be... intimidated. In the heat of the moment, in the midst of a duel, it becomes a good deal more difficult to... get through to them."

Watching a couple of hexes fly, she could see why that might be the case. The boys don't exactly seem receptive to much of anything just now. 

"I'm not without recourse, far from it, but I'm afraid you will find there is not much I can do _quickly_. Most tools at my disposal, most of the things I am able to do... do not have... immediate effect. It is generally the more... considered approach not to have the students recognise that fact. It greatly increases my... effectiveness as the House ghost." 

She understands that immediately. She thinks of how his presence today had stopped others cold, and how, had they felt he _didn't_ pose any kind of threat, he wouldn't have been any sort of deterrent either. She could see where he would then have to work very hard indeed to regain his standing. To be able to continue doing his job moving forward. In fact, it strikes her now, the longer he acts as her de facto bodyguard, the more he is at risk of someone challenging him and discovering just that. And he seems well aware of it. 

Not that it had stopped him.  
  


That makes her value his support all the more. 

It occurs to her that he is a resource, has _proven_ himself a _valuable_ resource, that she really should be using more... judiciously. This much is clear, she can't send him out there to do her job. But... "I can't just turn a blind eye," she says regretfully as she taps the Prefect's badge again.

There's an almost amused huff of laughter. "I think you'd be... surprised just how often we turn a blind eye to things here."

She suspects she'd be _**appalled**_. "Would you please wait here for me?" She asks. "And if it goes pear shaped..."

He nods solemnly, "I've already sent for help." The portraits will have alerted any Prefects they can find. He'd seen to that when he'd discovered the boys battling and before he approached her. He'd had a suspicion how she might react. "You could wait..." he suggests. But Kurz doesn't look all that great, and she really feels she _can't_. She shakes her head sadly, but thanks him. Very sincerely. 

Hermione has a short spike of something a little like apprehension as she wonders if she runs into trouble here, if the Professor could be forced to come to her rescue. That's immediately followed by wondering what shape he's in. Honestly, the bond has been so quiet, she half thought he'd gone to sleep. Well, he'd had the phial of Sober Up handy. She fervently hopes this won't be the reason he needs to take it. 

Next she considers, if _her_ Loyalty Vow only works when she thinks something is disloyal, if, just possibly, _his_ Protection Vow only works if he thinks she's really in danger. Or maybe that's down to her as well. Maybe it would only work if _she_ thinks she's in danger. Maybe, just maybe, with the Draught still in her system, if she can remain calm and best this situation, then he wouldn't be called in at all. She shouldn't like to imagine his response if she's wrong. 

Still, she doesn't feel she has a choice.  
  


Wand in hand and with no warning, she bursts into the middle of the fray startling the boys, yelling for them to stop, casting the brightest Lumos she can manage and a couple of Protegos to try to put an end to things more quickly. A few jinxes go wide, rather surprisingly they manage not to hit any of the eight people now standing in the hallway. Two stubborn little Ravenclaws, still eager to get yet another Hex in, apparently more caught up in their fight than the others, she sorts with a pair of Expelliarmuses that knock them both on their backsides, bowling one arse over tip as he goes. Their wands now firmly in hand, she turns to face the rest as the other five come to a halt. 

"That will be quite enough of that," she commands in her most authoritative tone. Oddly, she thinks she sounds a little like Madam Pince. "Would someone like to explain what you are doing here?" Less sure of the others' names, she turns to her Housemate, "Dennis?"

"They attacked Newton," he explains, pointing accusingly at the Ravenclaws. "Kurz. So we had to help to him." 

"Who is 'we'?"

"Me and Hunter. Hutchinson," he amends. 

"Hunter and _I_ ," she corrects softly, almost to herself. It's practically a reflex, and she can't help it. Her gaze shifts to the lone Slytherin. It seems she'd incorrectly assessed his part in the duel. She turns to the four Ravenclaws, the two still standing now helping their remaining Housemates up off the ground. 

"What do you have to say for yourselves?"

There's a chorus of explanations, none of which are clear, until turning to one another they seem to select one boy, David Chang, Cho's younger cousin, to speak for them. He tries again, "Kurz is a anthropomorphised calamity." She raises an eyebrow at that. Leave it to a Ravenclaw. "He melted his cauldron in Potions yesterday, caused a minor catastrophe, and ruined all our Potions in the process."

"Bellend," one of the boys behind him hisses in apparent agreement. 

"Language," Hermione warns him. It was certainly less eloquent than 'anthropomorphised calamity'. She can guess which of the two is more likely to become a Prefect next year without much effort. "And that's no excuse to Hex the boy." Kurz has clearly been hit by the Knee-Reversal Hex. 

"We have our marks to think of!" Comes Chang's plaintive response. The other three are quick to agree. She can half sympathise, but still... And looking at Kurz, if she squints just right, she can sort of see Neville, not that they look remotely alike, but it's all in the description. Neville had been _their_ walking calamity, and she wouldn't just stand there and let someone hex him. Naturally, she tries not to think of the way he still won't meet her eye when he mentions a Full Body-Bind even five and a half years later. 

That works almost as well as when she tried not to think of Corner. 

"Well you're welcome to do that when you explain yourselves to Professor Flitwick. In the meantime, ten points from everyone but Kurz for duelling in the corridors, and five points _to_ Creevey and Hutchinson for defending him." And then as she stands there looking at the Hufflepuff, something in her begins to become as outraged and angry as she can currently get. That may not be much, but it's more than enough. 

"In fact, given you four attacked him, _four to one_ in a deserted corridor, make that ten additional points _from_ each of you for the cowardly attack, and I'll be recommending to Professor Flitwick that he consider detention for the lot of you. And ten more _to_ Creevey and Hutchinson for inter-House cooperation and coming to a classmate's assistance," she adds, just to drive her point home. That works out to five points in their favour. It may not be much, but they just _got_ points for _duelling_. That's hardly her usual response. 

Two of the Ravenclaws will need to be sent to the Infirmary, one of them looks a good deal like the fungus Neville had described. Dennis goes a little pink as she examines the boy, and she looks at him appraisingly. "Your work?"

His pink tone shifts to a far deeper red as he nods. By way of explanation, he supplies, "Ron used that on Kev earlier." 

"Setting a stellar example, I'm sure," she grumbles, not thinking of Madam Pince. Much. 

Kurz should probably also go to the Infirmary, and she's not entirely sure about Dennis for that matter either, who seems to have been glanced by a Jelly-Legs Jinx. She's trying to decide how to resolve that - she can hardly send Kurz to the Infirmary alone with the two Ravenclaws who had already attacked him once this evening - when she hears the sound of running footsteps. 

She turns and spots three sets of black, green and silver uniforms pelting down the hallway towards her and grasps her wand more tightly before it occurs to her this is probably the 'help' to which the Baron had referred. 

As the Slytherins draw closer, she can make out three of the Slytherin Prefects, Pansy Parkinson and sixth years Ella Wilkins and Harper Hutchinson. 

They slow as they reach them and seem a little unsure how to manage this. Pansy takes the lead, "Everything sorted, Madam Snape?" 

One of the Ravenclaws coughs and then snickers at that, the older Hutchinson boy solves that with a Silencing Charm rendering him temporarily mute. "Your input is not required here," he tells the boy quietly. "Hunter, is everything alright?" He asks his little brother who is currently rubbing his left shoulder. 

"Yes, it's all fine, thanks, Harper. Just a Stinging Hex." Harper seems to ask something with his brows, and Hunter's eyes tick to one of the injured Ravenclaws. Harper gives his little brother a barely perceptible nod. "Madam Snape has it all under control," the boy adds with a wide grin. 

Hermione stands there a little stupidly, she feels, not that anyone notices. This is all very strange. "Thank you, Parkinson. Mostly under control, anyway. Duel stopped, points deducted." 

" _Eighty_ from Ravenclaw!" Hunter crows softly to his brother who shoots Granger-Snape a look of surprise. 

"I just need a little help getting them to the Infirmary," Hermione proceeds, suspecting she feels a little flattered by the boy's reaction. 

It had all gone so quickly, the ghost was probably right, she probably _could_ have waited for reinforcements. But she'd had no way of knowing how long they'd be, and she wasn't prepared to stand idly by, shirking her duty, and watch a couple of fourth years get mangled for her cowardice. 

It's a good thing that turned out well. She knows she got lucky. 

The four Prefects coordinate softly between themselves on who needs to be taken to Madam Pomfrey and agree two of them will escort the two Ravenclaws, the Hufflepuff and Dennis to the Infirmary. And given that leaves two Ravenclaws still running free who have just demonstrated a willingness to attack fellow students, they conclude someone should accompany Hunter back to the dungeons. 

Hermione supposes this means she'll be making her return to chambers in the company of the Hutchinson brothers, and isn't entirely sure how she feels about that. She's a little surprised when Hutchinson, the elder, offers to let Wilkins return to the dungeons with Hutchinson, the younger, and volunteers to join Parkinson on the trip to the Infirmary instead. Were she to learn of the Stinging Hex the Ravenclaw boy is about to endure, along with the quietly hissed threat to leave Harper's brother in peace in the future, his motives might be more clear. 

Hermione gives Parkinson the Ravenclaws' wands and the group parts ways. Two Ravenclaws returning to their dormitory, Hermione, Wilkins and the younger Hutchinson head toward the dungeons, and the rest are en route to the Infirmary. Hermione peers into the niche she'd occupied earlier as she passes, but she can't spot any sign of the Baron. Just in case he's still there but no longer visible, she gives a small wave in passing. 

Somehow it leaves her feeling ever so slightly foolish, and little like she's turning into Greengrass.

* * *

  


Hunter, as Hermione has decided to call him, at least to herself, because if she keeps referring to him as 'Hutchinson' this _will_ become confusing, half skips along beside them, rubbing his shoulder occasionally. Hermione knows the feeling all too well, her head is beginning to ache. Absently she rubs the lumps on the back of her skull as they go. 

Only two, not even enough for the Headmaster's tea, she thinks a little sardonically. 

"Hold still, Hunter. Let me see to your shoulder," Wilkins tells the boy when she notices his wincing, and although he fidgets - Hermione has a hunch he does that a lot - he readily places himself in Wilkins' care. She palpates his shoulder carefully, gingerly testing to see where it hurts. 

Hermione is interested to note that she does that manually and not with a Spell. A little shyly, she offers, "I can do a Discerno, if that would help? It won't show _much_ , but it's the only Diagnostic Charm I know."

Wilkins quickly agrees and Hermione does it just as Madam Pomfrey had shown her, with the adjustment that lets another party see the results; that's how she'd learnt it initially, after all. Wilkins and Hunter look duly impressed. They'd probably be less so if they knew she'd added it to her repertoire only days ago. Still, Hermione feels good about being able to contribute something. 

"Looks like we'll be stuck with you a little longer, Hunter," Ella reassures the boy. "You're going to be fine." 

"Well, you're not getting rid of me _that_ easily. What do you take me for?" He objects. 

Wilkins then applies a general purpose Healing Charm to the fourth year, explaining what she's doing as she does. Hermione finds the explanation useful, as it's yet another Charm she doesn't know. She can't say she's learnt it just by watching this time, but she adds it to the list of things she'd like to know.

Hunter is utterly relaxed at the point of Wilkins' wand, and Hermione has the impression he trusts the sixth year implicitly. She appears quietly confident, and somehow Hermione doubts this is the first time Wilkins has done this. Hermione has to admire the girl's way with the boy. She seems like she'd be a natural as a Healer. 

A swish, flick and loop later, and Hunter is quite restored. His enthusiasm is incredibly apparent and a little catching as he bops along beside them and proceeds to tell the sixth year all about the duel. 

"Eighty points!" He winds up. " _Eighty_! And we _got_ five." 

Wilkins gives Hermione a look much like the one Hutchinson, the elder, had earlier. But she doesn't say anything. Instead, she asks her younger Housemate, "What did the Turkey do wrong?" 

"He ran into Madam Snape," comes the immediate and rather gratifying reply. Hermione decides she quite likes the boy's grin. 'Turkey', she supposes, is Slytherin for 'Eagle'. She wonders what the Gryffindors are, and resolves not to ask. 

Ella smiles a little at the response. From the look of Granger-Snape, she finds this all very odd as well. "I was thinking more in terms of tactical errors."

"That seems a _grievous_ tactical error to me. She had him on his arse..."

"Language," Hermione and Ella correct simultaneously to their mutual surprise. Ella also notes that the Gryffindor Prefect didn't deduct points for that. Oddly, when it comes to the Slytherins, most Prefects do. 

"... in no time flat. _Bam_! Well, other than that, he should have used the Stinging Hex on my wand arm. That was stupid. As it was, he hit the wrong shoulder and I had no trouble hexing him out of action." He looks at Hermione a little apprehensively at that and quickly asks, "Um, but you won't take points for that, will you? He _did_ hex first." Hermione gets the feeling he was rather proud of the points he earned for his House tonight. 

She gives him a reassuring smile, "No, Hunter. You were well within your rights." And just like that he's back to beaming at her. Ella watches her approvingly. 

And soon the boy is also back to recounting the highlights of the duel, now with both hands gesturing wildly and complete with sound effects worthy of Seamus or Ron. It occurs to her to ask how he and Dennis had been drawn into the fighting. 

"Dennis... erm, Creevey that is, I have him in some of my classes, and Newton... ah, Kurz," he looks uneasily at Wilkins and appears to be struggling, "I have him in some of the others, and Dennis... um, Creevey..." He's flailing. 

"It's quite alright to call him 'Dennis' you know," Hermione tries to reassure him. "Even if he is in another House." He looks unconvinced. "Daphne Greengrass and I are on a first name basis," she sort of stretches the truth, a little, but the boy's look shifts to relieved and she decides it was well worth it. Ella just observes the two of them carefully. 

"Well, Dennis said he needed to get out of the Tower tonight. He'd done something that got a lot of the older students angry at him..."

"You mean fetching Professor McGonagall?" Hermione asks in frank disbelief. She thinks _she's_ about to get what currently passes for angry again. How _just_ like certain people to get angry at the person who sees that things are sorted _fairly_ instead of the individuals behaving inappropriately to begin with. She can just _picture_ the Quidditch team taking their frustration out on poor Dennis. She hopes Harry wasn't party to it. 

Hunter nods. "I gather they went into some detail about what they could do to him, you know, which Hexes and stuff, and Colin had already been sent to bed, and Dennis was kind of on his own." He doesn't say it, but he thinks it: Colin, who is the same year as Harper, really isn't quite as much use in a fight as the elder Hutchinson would be. Not unless you wanted to photograph it for posterity anyway. Hunter may be underestimating the difference the DA had made for Colin, but what's true is the Gryffindor lacks the confidence Harper has in spades. 

"So he left and we were hanging out... talking," that seems a far shrewder claim than to admit they'd been plotting to stinkbomb Filch, or that knob Weasley, Dennis was still undecided, and Hunter thinks it was mostly just talk anyway, sort of decompressing, "when we spotted the Ravenclaws attacking Newton. Well, we couldn't _leave_ him like that.

"But the Turkeys weren't exactly wrong, you know. Newton really _is_ rubbish at Potions. Only Dennis and I, neither of us are in that class with him. And he must have gotten it terribly wrong Monday, and when you mess with the Turkeys' marks, they lose their sense of humour."

"Objection!" Ella cries out, and Hunter smirks.

"It presupposes the existence of a sense of humour not currently in evidence," Hunter answers and they laugh. Hermione suspects that's a standard cue and response for them. They seem to be having fun. They clearly like each other. It's just not how she's used to seeing them. Slytherins. As a whole. 

And there she is, back at her problem with seeing them as individuals.  
  


They're not far from her chambers when there's a now very welcome whisper behind them. "Miss Wilkins, a moment, if you please." The trio stops where they are as the Baron catches up from behind. "I couldn't help noticing that Madam Snape had been struck from behind earlier. Would you mind terribly applying your Charm to the matter as well?" 

The young women look a little awkwardly at one another, but both have had occasion to work together with the Baron and see in him an ally. His suggestion makes sense, and they master their discomfort. 

"Would you show me?" Wilkins asks her.

"It's nothing much," Hermione objects, a little embarrassed, but she's not eager to give offence and she turns and lifts a hand to the bumps. Wilkins' hand soon joins hers. 

"'Nothing much' is a doxy egg. That's more of an Ashwinder's. What happened?"

"Cursed inkpot." 

"That will do it," she nods sagely as though that were an everyday thing, and who knows, it just might be. 

"Which one of the Turkeys did that?" Hunter asks, thinking he'd missed it, as Ella applies the Charm to Hermione's head.

"Yours wasn't my first fracas of the evening," she supplies. He grins at her still more broadly now, even more impressed. 

"There, all finished. How does that feel?" Wilkins asks her. 

Hermione runs a hand in disbelief over her head and has a hard time discerning anything at all left of the lumps. "Wow, that's amazing." 

Wilkins smiles, and if possible Hunter looks even prouder. "She's good, isn't she?" He asks. Hermione readily agrees. 

"Thank you..."

"Ella," Wilkins offers. "I have been reliably assured that it's quite alright to call someone by their first name, even if they _are_ from a different House."

She grins at Hermione at little shyly, but when Hermione smiles back and says, "Thank you, Ella. I appreciate it," her shyness seems to vanish. 

"After a bit of Phrenology, it only seems appropriate to be on a first name basis anyway," the Slytherin quips. 

"Oh? And what did you learn from the bumps on my head?" Hermione holds no more stock in Phrenology than she does in Divination, but she gets the strong sense Wilkins... _Ella_ doesn't either. 

"That you could probably use a good night's rest. And if you can find any, a prophylactic Headache Potion probably wouldn't go amiss. Unfortunately, Madam Pomfrey doesn't have any in stock right now," she adds with a shrug.

It occurs to Hermione why the Slytherin Prefect might think so, and she feels a little guilty again. Right _there_ was another example of the problems inherent in treating the Snakes as a single entity. They very much aren't. 

And there's one with them now who's begun to really stand out for her. 

Hermione turns to face the Baron, "And it seems I owe you another 'thank you' as well. He alerted me to your duel," she clarifies for the others. 

The Baron almost smiles, which is to say the corner of his mouth twitches fractionally. He approves of that explanation... greatly. It's true, and yet... misleading. It manages to explain without revealing things that should best not be revealed, and buoys his standing as well. It's almost... elegant. He's beginning to have... hope for the witch. Despite her House. 

And isn't... _hope_ a new... sensation. He can't say he... dislikes it. No. Not at all.

He gives her what passes for him as an encouraging nod. From any one else, it might have been a slight bobbing motion, but Hermione has begun to adjust to his mannerisms accordingly. 

"I bid you ladies a good evening," he whispers, and with a "Mr. Hutchinson," and a stiff bow, he drifts off, clanking his chains as he floats up the corridor. 

"Goodnight, Baron," Hermione calls out after him. It strikes the other two as odd, and only then does it register that they hadn't heard the ghost arrive either.  
  


The Slytherins walk her to her door and pause to wish her goodbye. Hunter extends a hand formally, it seems a strange gesture from a fourteen year old, Hermione, sort of puzzled, takes it, and he shakes her hand solemnly with a, "Goodnight, Madam Snape. Thank you very much for your assistance." 

"You're very welcome, Hunter. I was glad to help."

Ella gives her a nod from where she stands behind the boy as Hermione says goodnight to them both.  
  


She opens the door and crosses the perception filter that vanishes her from sight, but she turns back to watch the two Slytherins make their way deeper into the dungeons with a shake of her head. 

It was really no big thing, stopping the duel as she had, but then she wouldn't have thought twice about it a week ago. It was just a bunch of upset fourth years, no big deal.  
  


But she is very relieved to be home.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive thanks to everyone who provided feedback on the poll last chapter. It was really appreciated. <3
> 
> Anyone so inclined is still welcome to add their two cents in the comments last chapter. And I'm soliciting input on Neville now, too.


	81. 11 11u Tuesday - Return to Chambers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hermione 7G (Prefect), Severus, Sunny, Crooks, Ernie Macmillan 7H (Head Boy), Millicent 'Millie' Bulstrode 7S (Reserve Beater), Alberta Runcorn 7S, Vincent 'Vince' Crabbe 7S (Beater), Professor Filius Flitwick, Poppy Pomfrey, Kevin 'Kev' Peterson 5G, Newton Kurz 4H, Darius Inglebee 4R (Reserve Chaser), Stewart Ackerly 4R (Beater)_
> 
> _Mentioned briefly: Hestia Carrow 6S (Chaser), Valerie Vaisey 6S (Chaser), Harper Hutchinson 6S (Prefect, Chaser), Draco 7S (Prefect, Seeker, Team Captain), Daphne Greengrass 7S, Pansy Parkinson 7S (Prefect), Roísín Rosier 6S_

Alberta's Tempus chimes, and she turns to Millie and tells her, "We need to get going if we don't want to have to hurry to make it back before curfew. You still wanted to stop by the library." They've been visiting Vince in the Infirmary, but it's getting late, and they're some distance from the dungeons. 

"Take me with you," the Slytherin Beater half begs, reaching for her arm to delay her departure. "There's no Pain Relief here anyway, and I swear Pomfrey's out for blood." He really does sound pretty wretched and kind of desperate. 

"I'd love to," Alberta answers more than a little insincerely, but it takes a practised ear to hear it and Vince is too far gone just at the moment either way, "but I don't think you're fit enough to get back before curfew, even _with_ our help. And we can't wait, Vince; we're on a Tempus here." She tugs her wrist free and collects her things. 

"You could Mobilicorpus me?" It sounds hopeful, a tone only achievable as he's blissfully unaware of just how much he'd suffered at Harper's Levitation Charm. So hopeful, Millie crumbles a little. 

Vince and Gregory had worked long and hard with her over the last summer and had helped her improve her Quidditch game enough that she had actually made the team this year, even if only in a reserve capacity. She was dead chuffed when she had. 

Er, that is to say, she'd been quite pleased. 

Yes. _That_. 

For the most part, and with the obvious and very logical exception of Seeker, the Slytherins had long put their faith in a strategy that favoured physically larger and stronger selections for the team. Not coincidentally, they're currently the only team of the four Houses comprised entirely of sixth and seventh years. The belief was, presupposing at least a nominal competence and speed on a broom, with practice the players could come to learn what was necessary and dominate through strength alone. For years they'd been highly successful with this approach. By default, that also left the team almost entirely male. Professor Snape hadn't interfered with the team management, one way or another, leaving it to the Captains and the House, and as long as it was successful... 

Well, Millie, Hestia and Valerie hadn't much fancied their chances of ever making the cut. 

Draco had turned things around some once he was made Captain this year. Merlin knows, Marcus, Graham and Urien had never been inclined to give them a shot. And now they have a year to prove themselves - and validate Draco's strategy - before someone else is made Captain next year. Probably Harper, all things considered. 

Well, that wouldn't affect Millie anymore, but still. If it matters for Hestia and Val, it matters for _her_. They're a _team_. 

Millie is a Reserve _Beater_ now. Not that that is such a radical departure or she is small of stature, per se. She isn't. Not by any means. She's not some waif like Pansy, bless her tiny heart and everything else. But Millie's a great deal smaller than the other Beaters and even some of the others who'd tried out for the position, and she'd _still_ won out. And making the team had the added bonus of reducing the likelihood she'd be teased for her size anymore. It made her physique... useful. _Everyone_ had to recognise that now, their individual aesthetics be damned. 

_Tossers_.

Er, obnoxious little upstarts. Yes. _That_. 

Not that any of the girls in _her_ year would be inclined to tease her; they're not like that. Well, Alberta _might_ have, but she's no lightweight herself. No, that had mostly been a problem last year, and those girls are all gone now. Thankfully. Of the sixth years, really only Roísín might be tempted to make fun of her. And Millie has no qualms about flattening the chit if need be, pure-blood or not. _Witch_.  
  


Somewhat apologetically, as she packs her things together she answers Vince, "I'm afraid I don't know how to do that Spell..." She trails off with a glance towards Alberta who shakes her head. "But I'm sure it won't be so bad to spend the night here..."

"I tell you, Millie, I wouldn't put it past the old bag to try to kill me in my sleep..." his voice drops to a whisper, in an effort to ensure the 'old bag' doesn't hear him. As Madam Pomfrey has better things to do just now, he gets lucky. Probably for the last time in a long time. 

Alberta can't help rolling her eyes, and wondering why she bothered to stop by. It's easy for her to be disparaging; her nose isn't swollen twice its original size and throbbing in time with her pulse. And that's to say nothing of its frankly disturbing colour, and not simply for the overtly Gryffindor overtones of that particular shade of crimson. 

She reminds herself that her father had warned her to play nicely with the sons of the inner circle, and that - when Vince isn't whinging like an gigantic baby - generally _he's_ the one she most agrees with politically in their House these days. He's more likely to speak his mind, particularly as far as those nasty, magic-thieving Mudbloods go, than so many of the others who seem intent on playing their silly little covert games. She considers such manoeuvres completely unnecessary as things stand. 

It's safe to conclude she wasn't sorted into Slytherin for any innate diplomatic savvy; she has none. Alberta, much like Vince, is something of a blunt instrument. It's not to say they don't scheme, they very much do, or try to, but they don't tend to mince words as they go about it. And as Daphne would say, those two may be counting their Fwoopers before they've hatched. 

If she says it often enough, it may even become a thing.  
  


"Vince..." Millie really doesn't know how to put this... She casts about for the right words. "I'm not sure you'll even _want_ to go back there tonight. Your... reception might be less than... warm." Merlin knows Theo had seemed uncomfortable enough with everyone's reactions at dinner, and _he_ hadn't been directly implicated by the Serpents... 

Alberta snorts. It's not that she disagrees, not at all; Millie's dead on for once. But she thinks _that_ at least shouldn't pose a problem for Vince. They, both of them, really couldn't give a Flying Fig what any of the rest think, and he should be tough enough to cope. And if not, it only serves to separate the wheat from the chaff. He certainly wasn't such a Shrinking Violet like Nott. 

And either way, it would only delay the inevitable.  
  


They'd gone to visit Vince after dinner and had tried to help him with his homework for tomorrow. The state he was in, Alberta had practically done the Astronomy prep for him singlehandedly. Still, he'd managed to keep up with Professor Binn's assignment well enough. It certainly helped that it wasn't remotely demanding, which of course is easily half the reason they're all in the course. A highly dubious love of history, nevertheless oft professed, naturally being the other... 

Millie had even skipped Frog Choir tonight to visit her teammate. Flitwick generally doesn't seem to notice if they're there or not - it would be more accurate to say he doesn't see the need to increase his N.E.W.T.s students' stress by making attendance mandatory, but some people have trouble recognising his generous nature for what it is - and Gregory obviously wasn't going to make it. Daphne, she thinks, had planned to study with Theo instead. Either way, that was her lookout and not Millie's concern. 

The girls had sat there doing their Charms and Magical Theory work at first until Vince woke again. Alberta may have lost patience somewhere along the line and slyly applied a Rennervate, not that anyone's the wiser. After all, what's the point to visiting someone if the person isn't aware you've done so? Then they also won't know they owe you in turn. 

It had been a... well it was more of an _awkward_ visit, really, than anything else, and everyone was thankful they had the routine of homework to spare them the effort of making what was ultimately highly stilted conversation. 

Yesterday it would have been a whole different story; there wouldn't have been any question that this was the proper thing to do. But today... After what the _Serpents_ had suggested... 

No, they _hadn't_ suggested, they'd outright _hissed_ the boys were _responsible_ for the Head's _bonding_. 

There was no wriggle room. The senders had been _certain_. 

It leaves the witches... conflicted. 

As it is, they can't help the occasional look Vince's way, varying from suspicious to appraising. But there are others in the Infirmary and there's an image to maintain, and for the less observant, outwardly they are quite successful in projecting a picture of sanguine serpentine concern.  
  


That picture takes a bit of a hit and the general awkwardness increases when Flitwick himself unexpectedly makes an appearance in the Infirmary. Apparently Pomfrey had summoned him to assist with some Hexing or another. Millie pinks, awaiting his rebuke, but the little Charmsmaster merely inclines his head and greets her most politely.

Looking at Vince's prostrate form, he asks her, "I gather that's going around?" She's quick to agree - it's true enough - and he follows that up with a, "Well, speedy recovery then," to Vince that merely seems to illustrate how little awareness he must have of the cause. He passes them to go speak to Pomfrey about some of her other wards, and the Snakes resume whispering amongst themselves, their disdain for the part-goblin ratcheting up a notch. 

Filius is not _quite_ as oblivious as they might suppose. 

He'd hardly neglected to notice his Slytherins had been missing tonight. Mr. Goyle, in particular, has a lovely voice; his absence had most assuredly been noted. Nor has Filius failed to observe over the years that the Snakes are far less likely to report cases of Hexing amongst themselves than the other Houses. Anyone with the most casual understanding of human nature would - correctly - be able to guess that that _certainly_ isn't because they're _less_ likely to hex one another. No, they simply prefer to solve their problems amongst themselves. They see little point in risking House points for something that - as they see it - they are eminently capable of managing on their own. 

As it is, the Charms Professor rather assumes they've hexed the ever living stuffing out of one another this evening. 

It happens. He's merely relieved he hasn't been called in to fix any of _them_. He has his hands quite full at the moment. 

He takes Mr. Crabbe's malaise, not altogether incorrectly after all, for the result of a malicious Spell. As a dueller of some renown and a Charms Professor with decades of experience behind him, he knows a thing or two about that. Of course, if he understood what had _led_ to this, he might well be a far sight less sympathetic. He alone amongst his colleagues hasn't forgotten his initial response to hearing Severus had been subjected to taking a Protection Vow. Admittedly, the fact none of _Filius'_ charges were bonded has made that easier. But then his superior grasp of the ramifications of Geases and Vows may make a real difference, too.

* * *

  


Poppy greets the Charmsmaster enthusiastically and with more than a little relief. "I'm so sorry, Filius. I hate to bother you again..."

"Not at all, Poppy, not at all. Part and parcel of the service, my dear, and I'm happy to help. I'd have been here earlier, but we had Choir practice..."

"Of course, no need to apologise. It's just as well, really, that you've come later. Two of yours have since been admitted," she nods towards Misters Ackerly and Inglebee, "and we now have yet another case."

" _Another_ one?" Filius' eyebrows shoot up almost comically, but she agrees with the sentiment. 

She nods, "The _third_ today. I haven't seen this particular Jinx in years, and now... this. I don't know quite what to make of it.

"First Mr. Boot this afternoon, and now Misters Peterson and Inglebee," she indicates two of the four lads on the beds before them. 

"These things come and go in waves," he reassures her unnecessarily while taking a closer look at the first boy, "as you well know." Although it's ever so slightly worrisome that two of today's targets had been from _his_ House. 

"Well, if it's going to become more popular, you'll have to teach me the Countercharm. We can't have you needing to pop by to sort it every time the mood strikes one of the little blighters..." The last is murmured but still garners her a smirk from Filius and a look of surprise from the Gryffindor on the bed.

"Would that I could, Poppy, would that I could. I'd gladly do so, but I'm afraid I haven't got one. I'd simply undone the _effects_ on Mr. Boot this afternoon, not the Spell itself. Frankly, I'm not sure precisely what it is." With a glance at Mr. Inglebee, he adds, "Or what it was supposed to be." Merlin, he'd thought Misters Boot and Peterson looked bad... 

Well, time and tide. He's confident he'll fix that too. 

It just might take a while.  
  


He hops up on the first lad's bed and gets to work. 

"It's like they have lamellae," he says, turning to the Matron and sounding a little impressed. "We're quite certain this was a Jinx and not the result of a Potion? An accident perhaps? Or one of Pomona's new specimens?" He takes pains to refer to any unknown Spell as a 'Jinx' and not a 'Hex'. It's a simple measure, but a _crucial_ one that has a way of keeping things from escalating unnecessarily. Staff are very careful in this regard. 

Well... By and large. 

"I doubt it's Potion-related. Severus was the one who sent Mr. Boot in. I'm sure he would have said something were that the case," she clarifies her reasoning for her colleague. "Although I suppose Albus _was_ instructing them today... 

"Who did this to you, Mr. Peterson?" Poppy asks matter-of-factly as Filius takes the lad's chin in hand and tilts his head back and forth, examining him closely. That the little Charms Professor had first Imperviused his hands, _twice_ , doesn't go unnoticed by the boys, two of whom begin shifting uneasily where they lie, while the others both sigh with relief. 

Kev looks a little unsurely from one staff member to the other. _He's_ no grass. 

Flitwick waves his wand again and tries to assess some of the magical traces he finds; his tutting noises and running commentary to Pomfrey as he does so prove less than reassuring. 

And suddenly Kev isn't quite as sure with regards to how he feels about grassing...

The way _Weasley_ had left him, he might just _want_ to grass him up after all. And, bloody Nora, does his _face_ ever hurt. 

Plus it's not like Dennis hadn't made sure McGonagall knew all about it... 

"It's quite alright," Professor Flitwick attempts to encourage him. "This isn't about punishment, it's about putting you back to rights again." Personally, Poppy wouldn't be altogether opposed to some punishment - the more deterrent, the fewer Hexes, she likes to think... But Filius is correct: that hadn't been the point to her enquiry. 

"You mean I could be _stuck_ this way?" Comes the pitiful wail and now Mr. Inglebee begins to look nervous, too. He's fortunate enough not to realise just _how much_ worse off he is, and his friend Mr. Ackerly has been good enough not to mention it. There's a reason there aren't any mirrors kept in the room. Poppy had learnt that lesson a very long time ago. And anyone who believes the _witches_ are more sensitive to Spell damage to their looks than the _wizards_ are has another think coming. The young men can be quite vain indeed. 

And to be perfectly fair, these two _do_ look something dreadful. 

It's harder on the Muggle-born like Mr. Peterson, of course. They naturally have less experience with what the Mediwitches can do for them and tend to panic more quickly. Had she thought of it, she'd have given him a Calming Draught. 

"No, my boy, no. Not at all. We _will_ get you sorted. It's simply easier if we know what was used," the Charms Professor tries to explain. 

"Ron," Kev mutters, not uncertain he'd exactly mind if that lands the ginger right in it. "Weasley," he adds more loudly, just to be sure. Frankly, he's begun to worry now. He'd thought a Potion, or maybe two, and he'd be good to go. But that hadn't been the case. Then he'd pinned his hopes on Flitwick arriving and doing his thing... And it looks like that isn't going to happen either. This seems... unduly complicated, and Ron's a right tosser. Prat. He _must_ have known this wasn't easily remedied. And he'd hexed Kev with it _anyway_. Bastard. 

"Hmm," is his only reply. Then Flitwick turns to Inglebee and asks, "And you, Mr. Inglebee? Who cast the Jinx on you?" 

_Jinx_! Kev snorts. Pull the other one. He can't stop staring at Inglebee and hoping he looks nowhere near as bad as that. He couldn't possibly. Bloody hell. There's _no way_ that's a _Jinx_ , he keeps thinking, missing the finer points to the categorisation of Spells entirely. Stupid categorisation. 

To be fair, they're obscure at best, and if one were to relate them strictly to the difficulty in undoing the Spell, well even Filius has to admit, this one is proving a bit... thorny. Mr. Peterson may not be all that wide of the mark. 

"Creevey," Darius Inglebee answers far more readily than Peterson had, but Peterson looks impressed at that. The last Kev had seen Colin, the boy had some noteworthy antlers on his head, and hadn't seemed likely to be out and about hexing fourth years anytime soon after. That it's a _fourth_ year in the bed next to him - three total currently on the ward, in point of fact, if one counts Kurz - should probably tell Kev it was more likely to have been _Dennis_ than _Colin_ , but he sees what he expects to see and underestimates his younger Housemate. 

Obviously, Poppy's ability to so quickly set the younger Creevey to rights upon admission had kept his older Housemate from particularly noticing him, and Mr. Peterson _was_ a mite preoccupied with his own situation. She's an old hand with the Jelly-Legs counter, it had been a light case, and Mr. Creevey had been off again almost as soon as he'd arrived, with Mr. Hutchinson agreeing to stay with him long enough to accompany him to the Gryffindor Tower. The sixth year Slytherin seems to take his Prefect duties quite seriously. 

Stewart Ackerly, who had been on the receiving end of Harper's Stinging Hex and lowly whispered threats - those were _definitely_ threats - to leave Hunter alone, might disagree. He's been sitting there, chasing thoughts of gaining revenge on the Quidditch pitch almost since he was brought in. The fact he envisions that revenge taking place on the pitch instead of in a dark corridor has less to do with his having learnt something from Granger, Snape, whatever about the unacceptability of ambushing fellow students that way, and more with how he fancies his chances against the sixth year Slytherin in a duel. Given Hutchinson's prowess on the pitch, realistically it makes Ackerly only _slightly_ less of a fantasist, but should provide him with pleasant dream fodder for the night.  
  


"Both Gryffindors then," comes Filius' contemplative response. "Any idea who cast on Mr. Boot?" Poppy just shakes her head. 

"Well," Flitwick sighs, "it's not precisely a tricky Spell..." Kev can't help thinking if that were the case he'd be on his way back to the Tower by now, but the Charms Professor has begun waving his wand, and slowly but surely, his features are returning to normal. "And it's easy enough to undo the effects of," here again, Kev mentally begs to differ, but then compared to a _tail_ , it probably is, "but I'm afraid I'm treating it symptomatically. I'll have to ask Severus tomorrow if he knows which Jinx was used; he's generally quite good about uncovering that." Which is only one of the many clear benefits of applying Legilimency after a duel. "Or perhaps Minerva can get her little Lions to admit what they used."

"I'll Floo her," Poppy volunteers and Filius nods his agreement. 

"And I'll set about finding the Countercharm then."

"Thank you, Filius. I'd appreciate it. We may not see it again for another three years, but you never know. And three times in one day, in two different Houses... That's generally a bad sign. I'd expect more before the week is out." 

"It's not so much where it manifests, that I'd worry about," he disagrees with a smirk. "It's which Houses are _casting_ ," he amends with a wink. 

It's Poppy's turn to smirk back at him, "Oh, I couldn't agree more. But I didn't get the impression it was a Gryffindor that had used it this afternoon..."

"Ah. Well, then _that_ would be worrisome," he chuckles. 

There's one conspicuous absence since Filius' visit to the Infirmary after lunch, and he enquiries after the Head Boy, more than a little curious about some of the details. "Were you able to determine which Spell had been used on Mr. Macmillan? I notice he's no longer here..." Filius wasn't remotely clear on what he'd been hexed with, and would _love_ to know. Purely from an academic standpoint, of course. 

"No, I'm afraid not. As you say, I ended up treating him purely symptomatically. Some Tincture of Bluet in a blindfold, a compress applied regularly... A few all purpose Healing Charms..." Those sound perfect, and Kev would like them _now_ , thanks. For whatever reason, the Matron doesn't oblige. Probably not quite as 'all purpose' as the name suggests then. Stupid nomenclature. 

"But he was quite insistent he needed to be sorted sufficiently to be released, so I did what I could. It seems he had... an appointment with Argus this evening he was reluctant to miss."

Filius nods his understanding. Strange lad, Mr. Macmillan. So proper in some respects, but were he truly as proper as he likes to present himself, then surely he wouldn't have been duelling in the hallways to begin with. When Severus has a chat with Filius about precisely that duel, as part of his effort to see the Ravenclaws involved suitably punished, their Head will seriously revise those thoughts about Mr. Macmillan's propriety. Fortunately _he's_ Pomona's problem. 

"Pity," Flitwick answers instead, sounding sincerely sorry the boy had been healed and Kev gets nervous again. The teachers here can be truly strange. "If you ever discover what was used on him, kindly let me know." Pomfrey readily agrees, and Kev feels just that little bit more like a laboratory specimen. 

Filius works on Mr. Peterson for some time, at least by his standards, and soon the boy seems mostly back to normal. There's obviously been some discomfort associated and Poppy has a topical cream she's applying for that, but the presence of the Slytherins is indeed hampering her ability to act. She probably deserves this for not coming up with a clever way to wrap up her claim that they had no Pain Relieving Potion in the Infirmary. 

She turns to send the girls off to their House, figuring she can always Stupefy Mr. Crabbe, or perhaps apply the Somnolence Charm... But she's confident, once the witches have left, she can arrange for him not to be any sort of witness to her treatment of the other boys.

* * *

  


Vince begins a hurried negotiation with his Housemates - he'll teach them the Mobilicorpus if they'll at least try to take him back to their dormitories. _Millie doesn't_ really _need to go to the library? Surely that can wait until tomorrow? Please?_ It's unclear what he thinks they'll do if they try and fail en route. 

Clearly it isn't an option. 

Alberta might have stood firm, but she has no chance against Millie. Thinking it will be more likely to succeed if they both give it a try, Alberta consents to attempting to learn the Charm, and by the time Madam Pomfrey comes over to let them know they need to leave to make curfew, they've... 

Well, they certainly haven't _mastered_ it. But they _are_ able to perform it sufficiently that Vince informs the Matron he'll be returning to his House for the night. 

Poppy doesn't for a moment think this is a good idea - it _really_ isn't - particularly not after witnessing Miss Bulstrode's unsteady Mobilicorpus, but she also isn't exactly eager to keep Mr. Crabbe in her Infirmary if she doesn't absolutely have to. She makes the appropriate noises, well aware they are almost guaranteed to assure these fools stick to their plan, but not minding, precisely, and with a shake of her head watches as the witches use the Spell to try to propel their Housemate back to their dormitories. 

The thing about the Mobilicorpus, especially in the hands of a novice user, is that it is incredibly difficult to steer. With a little experimentation, the three Slytherins settle on having Vince recline, and the young women make an effort to tow him. That doesn't go anything like smoothly, and Millie asks the Mediwitch if she'd mind, terribly, casting some bandages on the boy that they might use to tow him. 

Poppy wouldn't mind in the least. She's only too glad to, in fact. An over enthusiastic Ferula later sees the wizard wrapped in dressings, admittedly more than the situation strictly requires, and the girls take hold of two of the strips and begin to tow their Housemate behind them. Their books in one hand, the gauze wrapped around their other hands, their pace quick, conscious of the impending curfew, and the large Slytherin Beater trussed like a mummy and bobbing precariously behind them... They make a funny picture. 

So much so, that the other patients begin to chuckle. 

Kev, whose good sense can legitimately be questioned, and probably should be, doesn't leave it at chuckling. He starts laughing and can't stop. A clearer head might point out that it was precisely _this_ reflex on his part that had led to his Jinxing and subsequent stay in the Infirmary, but that escapes him. All he can think of while watching the Slytherins trying to leave is a team of sled dogs, and the only thing he manages to get out between his fits of giggles are cries of, "Mush! Mush!"

He's lucky that it makes no sense whatsoever to the wizards and witches in the room. Not a one of them is Muggle-raised, let alone a Muggle-born like himself. 

Had he left it at that, it might have been forgotten; the Snakes currently have their hands full after all. But Kev makes the mistake of taking up the cry whenever he sees them in the days to come, and eventually, one of the Muggle-raised Ravenclaws explains his meaning to the Slytherins. Just between Crabbe's and Bulstrode's responses, both very strong and sizeable Slytherin Beaters, that proves a _phenomenally_ poor idea. 

But for Kev, that's about par for the course.  
  


As they go past, Poppy shudders at the quality of the Mobilicorpus, but she's not helping them. Further. Of course, whether or not the Ferula will have actually been much of a help remains to be seen. No later than when they have to cut him free should that become a non-trivial issue. She hopes one of their number is good with a Diffindo, or she imagines she'll be seeing him back there before long. 

If Vince had any idea how this would play out, he'd have stuck to his Infirmary bed as though someone had applied a Permanent Sticking Charm to him. Merlin, he might have applied it himself. As ideas go, it wasn't one of his better ones, and he's hardly known for his mental acuity. 

The girls do their best, but neither is phenomenally good at Charms, nor are they the fastest learners. They do solid work, no more, no less, and they've been forced to learn a new Spell, a challenging one, in an incredibly short amount of time. They haven't had a chance to practice, and it goes as it must. They effectively practice with _him_. By the time they drag him into the common room, he'll have taken more hits than Harper had ever _dreamed_ of inflicting, and Vince will swear there wasn't a stair he hadn't struck along the way. 

Of course, that's only when his problems begin.

* * *

  


Hermione closes the door behind her with a small sigh of relief. It feels good to leave this day behind her. 

Or maybe that's just the wards. 

The corridors had been far from bright, no question, but they _had_ provided _some_ light. Now that the door is closed the room seems positively Stygian. She leans against the solid wooden barricade to all the world might throw her way, knowing it's far less substantial a barrier than the wards that she's now fairly certain confirm the Professor's presence. And if she happens to like standing there where she can still feel them tickling over her skin while allowing her eyes to adjust to the gloom, well that might be a coincidence. 

Or not. 

But it had seemed... right, _considerate_ to not use a Lumos or light the sconces. She's not sure why. It's probably linked somehow to trying not to intrude...

Or some faint sound she hasn't fully registered. 

She stands there for a moment, imagining that it were just that simple to shut out all her troubles and rather enjoying the sensation of the wards. She's sure of it now: they're better when he's here. Naturally, that also means she's sure he _is_ , but she doesn't question it. Of course, with the state he was in earlier, she has good reason to doubt he left chambers. And she feels certain he wouldn't have been able to hide it from her had he done so. Or taken the Sober Up. Were he up and about, the bond would let her know. 

Mindful of their agreement for her not to wear her uniform in chambers - once again, a convenient spot of misremembering - her 'Finite Incantatem' puts an end to the Transfiguration on her clothing and she's soon back in jeans, trainers and her lovely new green blouse. The Baron was right, this _does_ look better. Not that she thinks... _anyone_ will see it, but a promise is a promise. 

Or something like that. 

She pockets her tie, and then removes her robes as well, draping them over the arm holding her books. A mite selfconsciously, she slips her phial necklace out from under her top, immediately following that by thinking she now misses the feel of it against her skin. 

There's a niggling thought _that_ might be purely psychological, which of course it is. 

The fire, apparently lit in her absence, seems to have died back to embers, banked in the hearth. Her vision has adjusted enough now that she feels comfortable moving forward, which she does somewhat reluctantly, but then she can hardly stay hovering in the wards by the door all night. 

_That_ confidence lasts all of three steps until Crooks winds between her legs and nearly sends her sprawling. 

She half stumbles forward and then catches herself on the first of the dining table chairs, managing to stay upright, if somewhat inelegantly. Although she imagines pitching face first onto the floor would have been intrinsically less elegant... More importantly, however, she manages not to drop a single book in the process. In as much as they are _library books_ \- and she probably has quite enough problems with Madam Pince as is, thank you very much - and worse yet, checked out by the _Professor_... Well, it really is the far more crucial detail, she is _positive_. 

She voices a reproving and indignant, "Crooks!" 

Her stern tone holds about as long as it takes him to let out a pathetic little 'mrowr' - there's a career for the feline in theatre should he ever wish to pursue it - and she instantly feels guilty about leaving him alone for all this time and not feeding him supper and not playing with him and... By and large completely forgetting that he _hadn't_ been alone and that Sunny almost definitely would meet his needs if no one else did. Obviously she has no way of knowing Crooks had also managed to bully Severus into amusing him as well. 

It hadn't even taken him long. 

She can be excused for not anticipating that from the Professor, but she really should know her half-Kneazle better by now. 

She bends to pet her cat, apologising to him, presumably for her neglect and - more improbably - her _clumsiness_ , but she doesn't get far before she's interrupted by something that sounds like a groan. Her eyes dart up, but she trusts sufficiently in the wards that it doesn't even occur to her to reach for her wand, she merely peers into the darkness. 

She thought she'd imagined it before, but there's a faint glow coming from the couch. As it makes precious little sense (really? glowing?), she'd dismissed it as a reflection of the remains of the fire on the leather. It is not.

She approaches, softly, fairly certain the Professor must have fallen asleep there, and eager not to disturb him further. Not that that would in _any_ way explain the luminescence, but... As she gets closer, she can see that he _is_ in fact _glowing_. She has no explanation for it and doubtlessly would be wondering about that greatly, having no way of knowing it was caused by the first of the Potions she'd fed him a few hours ago, were she not so thoroughly distracted by her next observation. 

Somehow he's lying there, uncovered, in nothing but pyjama bottoms.  
  


She stands there staring for a moment, probably more from disbelief than to get an eyeful, although it's a not unwelcome side effect. 

There is a _half naked_ , glowing man on the couch in front of her. She has no idea which of those aspects she finds more incredible. 

No. No, that's not quite right. 

Her _husband_ is lying half naked and glowing in front of her. 

Yes, that does rather make a difference. Clearly it takes the prize.  
  


This is... _very_ different to seeing him similarly... _unclad_ in the Infirmary, where Madam Pomfrey's bustling presence served as a... well, a sort of buffer. A safety net. Her constant comings and goings... It was rather like having a duenna. 

Hermione is very conscious that it's just the two of them here. 

As though reading her thoughts, Crooks brushes against her leg, startling a soft gasp and a jump from her. Fine, not _quite_ just the two of them, but she supposes Crooks doesn't make for much of a chaperone. Still, the shock of the touch sets her to moving again. 

She proceeds carefully, quietly, eager, _very_ eager, not to wake him. The school robes have slipped a little over her arm, and she's trying not to stumble again. She has a bit of luck and doesn't, although undoubtably she'd be less in danger of that were she to watch where she's going instead of staring at the Professor. 

Still, she's probably justified. 

A weird sort of feeling comes over her; it dawns on her that she doesn't know if this is a commonplace thing for him, which she instantly begins to picture. Involuntarily, of course. Perhaps he often kips on the couch or lies about in his pyjamas of an evening... That's followed by near instantaneous flashes of hope and panic that might be the case. It makes her feel like her being here, seeing him like that, is just another invasion of his privacy. 

Which it probably is. 

She sighs. 

He turns, and the movement is accompanied by another low groan. He doesn't seem... peaceful. His brow is furrowed, and there's a tightness about his eyes again. 

Her first thought is to take the throw from the couch and cover him. She finds blankets a source of comfort. She could probably even do it magically. There's no impropriety in that... It's presumably the least one should expect from one's bondmate. 

Her next thought was probably that covering him borders on a crime, but it was so fleeting it hardly counts. Much. 

No, the next countable thought is of Madam Pomfrey's wonderful gift of that magnificent blanket. _That_ seems just the thing. And having thought of it, there's almost no doubt left in her mind that it needs fetching and he needs covering. At the latest once he groans again, she takes it for something like confirmation. 

Nearly resolved, close enough anyway, she makes her way to her room with more speed now, pleased that she doesn't bump into the end table as she does or trip once again. Crooks darts past her, and with a leap makes himself comfortable on her bed where he curls into a large orange ball, apparently every bit as appreciative of the duvet's self-warming properties as she was. 

Yes, _that_ blanket had been a _lovely_ gesture of the Professor's, and it's only fitting she return the favour. He deserves that. 

She deposits her books on the desk and then leans the door to, so as not to disturb the Professor unduly, before drawing her wand and lighting the sconce by the bed. And if trying to make sure she doesn't wake him prolongs his stay on the couch and increases her chances of tucking him in, so be it. She's considerate that way. 

She's just Banished her robes to her wardrobe when Crooks' 'mrowr' draws her attention to the bed again. 

Which is when she spots the chocolate frog on her pillow. 

She stares at it for a few moments before deciding the Professor has apparently chosen to enact some version of the 'bonbon points' system after all... Or more likely, this is his way of apologising for his... very memorable demonstration earlier. She's right, it was a bit of both. 

Any remaining doubts she had about covering him with their new blanket disappear. It's practically an _imperative_.

* * *

  


Filius has moved on to Mr. Inglebee, but he hasn't begun casting Charms on him yet. That's probably a bad sign. Poppy sighs. No, Filius is making soft 'tsking' sounds, and experience shows, that isn't likely to be crowned with success. At least not any time soon. 

But she has every faith he'll figure this out eventually. 

Poppy silently Summons several phials of Pain Relief and administers them directly to all four boys now left in her care. They can't reveal they've been given any if they don't know. Her secret is probably safe. 

And she really needs to address that tomorrow. Perhaps she'll demonstratively brew something. Merlin knows, there are enough witnesses present. 

She's just finished with the Potions when Filius turns around and has to admit that Mr. Inglebee's case is proving more difficult. He's hesitant to try anything just yet as he doesn't wish to inadvertently complicate the Spellwork. She likes that about the man very much. Where fools rush in... He's so _sensible_. 

Once Filius knows which direction he needs to head, it's often as simple as unravelling a jumper by pulling on a loose bit of yarn. No more than _that_. But as it stands now, it's more of a hopeless tangle. 

Poppy's inclined to agree. The others had been bad, but this... 

And really, Mr. Peterson has been suitably mended and will _still_ need to spend the night. There's really little point to rushing in effort to help Mr. Inglebee; he won't be leaving the Infirmary either way. They agree to leave it for tomorrow and consult with their colleagues in the morning. 

"Well, Mr. Ackerly," Filius starts as he hops down from Mr. Inglebee's bed, "will we be seeing you back on the pitch soon, or will you be stuck here for longer?" 

"Oh, no, Sir, I'll be back on the pitch in no time, I promise." With a dark look Peterson's way, as though the poor fifth year had anything to do with it, he adds, "Assuming the Snakes and Lions leave us any practice time that is."

It's the fourth year Ravenclaw's very first year on the team, and he's quite proud of that achievement. He's a Beater, and his significantly smaller size than the Slytherins, even compared only to their reserve Beater, speaks in part to the Ravenclaws' markedly different approach to the sport. Truthfully, it also reflects the significance most of his Housemates place on scholastics and particularly their test scores, which means, many in their fifth and seventh years aren't willing to burden themselves with an additional commitment. 

Certainly not for _athletic_ pursuits of all things. 

This year, not a _single_ fifth year is on the team. They're just too busy preparing for their O.W.L.s. Admittedly, this attitude thins the competition and takes away from Stewart's achievement a little. Still, he had been thrilled to land the position. 

There is some irony - that escapes most - that _their_ Head of House conducts both the Hogwarts' Orchestra and Frog Choir, non-academic diversions if ever there were any. But at least it's culturally _relevant_. 

"Good to hear it, Mr. Ackerly, good to hear it," Filius answers, ignoring the dig at the Gryffindor. "Well, I'll be on my way. Good night to you all, and I hope you feel better in the morning. I'll be in to see you tomorrow, Mr. Inglebee," he assures the boy. "Don't worry."

Darius Inglebee, one of the Ravenclaws' Reserve Chasers and also new to the team, just lies there hoping the reason Professor Flitwick hadn't said anything about _his_ return to pitch has more to do with his reserve status than the unlikelihood he'll be back on his broom any time soon. Oddly, it doesn't keep him from fretting.  
  


Poppy has been thinking. Mr. Kurz, in contrast to the other three boys, might just be better off spending the night in his own bed. His Knee-reversal Hex has been remedied, and with the Pain Relief, he should now be good to go, if perhaps a mite unsteady on his feet. He really just needs to get his legs under him again. And she suspects leaving him here for the night with two of the boys who had hexed him is only asking for trouble. 

"Filius," she begins a little regretfully, but he's begun smiling in anticipation. Her eyes shoot to the little Hufflepuff. "I hate to impose again..." 

"Of course not, Poppy, of course not. You have to stay here with the others boys after all. It's not a problem. Well, what do you say, Mr. Kurz? Shall I accompany you back to your House?" 

Charms is quite Newton's favourite course, so very much so, not that he'd ever let any of his House hear him say that, Merlin, but he's _just_ not a Plantsman. He's not exactly a Potionsman _either_ , of course, that _had_ been the whole source of the bit of bother he'd landed in tonight after all, stupid Eagles... Well, except Professor Flitwick, goodness! The man was practically a genius! Except as a Hufflepuff, really, it's not like they expect him to excel at Potions, but there is some pressure, more than a little, honestly, to know his Fanged Geraniums from... his Shrinking Violets, he supposes. 

Well, he knows _that_ one. 

Naturally, the fangs are a bit of a giveaway. 

Newton's smile is ready and wide, his agreement immediate, and with a slightly precarious hop from the bed - his knees still feel wobbly - he and his ever so highly esteemed Professor set off towards the basements. 

"Professor, a friend of mine was having a spot of trouble with his swish, don't you know, and I was wondering, if you wouldn't mind, that is..." Their heads are close together, Newton's only slightly higher than the Charms Professor's, and they're already quite happily lost in their discussion of swishes as the Infirmary's doors close behind them.  
  


Inglebee and Ackerly may have grumbled, but Filius as usual doesn't take note.

* * *

  


Ernie Macmillan has just finished another gruelling session with Mr. Filch - say what you will, the Squib is creative - and is making his way to the Hufflepuff basement to change before doing his rounds. Somehow a Cleaning Charm doesn't seem sufficient for his clothes. He's had a little time to reflect, as is his wont, and he has to admit - if only to himself - that if someone had said the sort of things about him or his hypothetical bondmate - not that that's _likely_ , but still - that he'd said about Professor Snape and Hermione Granger, Snape, whatever... Well, _he'd_ have done far worse than taking twenty points and assigning an evening with Hogwarts' caretaker. 

No, it hadn't been right of him to say those things. Certainly far from kind, and all in all, Professor Snape had been quite decent about it. Not that Ernie had ever meant for the man to _hear_ those things. Merlin! Of course not! Although he's still not quite sure how he had... 

The Potions Master may have been Disillusioned there for longer than they thought... 

It doesn't matter. Ernie had been out of line, and he's wizard enough to admit it. And possibly not _just_ to himself. He's been trying to decide if an apology to Hermione would be more self-serving than helpful. 

There's little point in apologising if it only serves to make _her_ feel _worse_... It probably depends on if the Professor had repeated the things he'd said or not. A gentleman probably wouldn't. Which only makes the fact _he'd_ said them all the worse... He'll need to give that a think. 

Lost in these thoughts, he comes to a thoroughly baffled halt as the most curious sight appears racing around a corner.  
  


Bulstrode and Runcorn are running through the corridors, and he's initially of half a mind to call them to a stop. He _is_ the Head Boy after all. He tells himself his reaction isn't even the result of a grudge against Professor Snape for his earlier punishment, and it truly isn't, although his latent dislike of the House as a whole definitely plays a role. 

Except as he pauses, he's able to take in the whole scene. 

Merlin.  
  


There the witches are, trotting along, towing an outstretched _Crabbe_ behind them wrapped top to tail in bandages - he'd love to hear the story behind _that_ \- and he seems to be... Frankly, it looks like they've used a Wingardium Leviosa on him, except it doesn't work that way at all, and as they jog past, Crabbe _thwacks_ into the floor, _cracks_ into a corner, _smacks_ into a statue... 

_Stunningly_ , going by the Beater's groans, the man must be _conscious_ for all of this and, judging by the absence of complaints, presumably a _willing_ participant for reasons that _completely_ escape Ernie - and where do you even _meet_ people like that. Although if this keeps up, he can't imagine Crabbe remains that way for long... Conscious, that is. Merlin's fuzzy Knutsack. 

Well this was unexpected. 

Ernie doesn't particularly like Crabbe. _No one_ particularly _likes_ Crabbe, and he holds off on calling for them to stop long enough for him to consider... If he says nothing, this is likely to continue. He weighs the pros and cons - not long, of course, but he _does_ weigh them - and with a shake of his head decides to let them pass unhindered. No, this is too good to put an end to. 

He mentally wishes them 'godspeed', especially after another burst of speed sends the supine Slytherin slamming into a suit of armour that objects to the abuse by prodding the bound wizard's blazingly carmine nose with his lance... Passive aggressive things, those suits. And _that_ draws the _only_ objection Ernie's heard from the wizard. Somehow, Crabbe seems to have _asked_ for this. 

Well, more than usual, anyway. 

No. Ernie just stands there watching and wishing, _wishing_ , he had Creevey's camera.

* * *

  


Hermione, by nurture, is no more likely to eat the chocolate frog on her pillow than she had been the Headmaster's sherbets. Less even, given the source. No, instead of eating it, she places it at the base of the vase holding her wedding bouquet on top of Crooks' carrier, which currently serves as her bedside table, creating something by way of a still life that thankfully no one's ever likely to see. There's a shy but highly pleased smile on her lips as she does so she wouldn't care to have to explain, but fortunately needn't, and it's hardly surprising that her free hand is once again absently fingering the phial about her neck. 

She shakes the reverie off and opens her beaded bag, rooting about in it for the blanket the Matron had gifted them... her... she's not entirely certain really. But she suspects Madam Pomfrey wouldn't have given it to her were her bondmate anyone other than the Professor. Yes, Hermione feels reasonably sure about that. Well, she takes that as yet another sign that she's doing the right thing. 

The blanket draped over her arm - she's practically mastered the art of that after not tripping over her robes - and her hand on the knob, she douses the sconce and opens the door. 

The light from the embers is enough to see her back to the Professor's side, although she's still pleasantly surprised not to have knocked into any furniture. _Undoubtedly_ the fact he is _glowing_ had helped her to navigate her way back. She really can't get over it. It seems... surreal. She'll have to ask about that later. If she finds the courage. 

She comes to a standstill beside her sleeping... husband. 

It's a heady thought, one that really does have her struggling to fill her lungs, and her exhale is sharp. Almost as sharp as the angles of his face, or the lines of the very defined muscles on his abdomen, which have her looking - _glancing_ , really; well, it's not like she's _staring_ \- at the line of dark hair that leads the eye - quite automatically, she is _sure_ \- to where it just begins to widen where it disappears beneath the waistband... _'Is it still called that when it's slung so low about his hips?'_ some part of her brain that hasn't quite absorbed what it's looking at feels the need to ask. 

Or maybe it's a coping mechanism. 

And then he moans again, turns fitfully, and tries to bury his face in his arm.  
  


He's lying there on his back with his right arm thrown over his head, which only pushes his chest into sharper relief. Merlin, his poor chest. His wounds look so... raw. She has at least a little experience of her own with that. There's no way that doesn't hurt. Her scar pulls as she thinks about it. And then there's a sharp pang of something in her chest, and it's... it's like she feels his pain. 

Sometimes sympathy can feel so... real. So... _tangible_.

That's not the bond. It just... hurts to look at him. _Really_ look at him. 

His brow is even more creased than it had been before, which most assuredly has at least something to do with the fact her Draught of Peace has worn off, but after the events at the Manor from the past handful of days, his dreams aren't... pleasant. A fact that's fairly apparent just from watching him. 

She goes inwards, trying to listen to the bond, and he really... he _can't_ be doing well. She can thank the Calming Draught he took for the fact that it isn't any worse. 

She feels guilty for standing there... _perving_... And then questions if she was... Well, 'perving' may have been unjustly harsh... It probably wasn't _that_. But the fact remains he's neither in good shape (a small voice disagrees: he's in _great_ shape, and another sadly replies: _that_ he _is_ , but he's still not in _good_ shape) nor is he in a good place, and she's standing there like some dim witted, smitten bump on a log instead of covering him with the blanket she is quite sure will _help_.  
  


Naturally, instead of doing so immediately _now_ \- sometimes she can't _begin_ to explain herself; the answer is: she's complicated, and she can claim whatever she likes, she _likes_ the view - she pauses to Transfigure it blue to match the other decorative items in the lounge. Unexpectedly, for her anyway, he seemed to have given some care to his furnishings... Although why _shouldn't_ he? It's just... It was foolish. She hadn't really known what to expect, she supposes... But it seems... right... to take just a moment, a _brief_ moment - how long could it take? - to show she recognised that, _acknowledges_ it, and to see to it the blanket matches as well. It's hardly any effort. 

And possibly helps justify her standing there a little longer. 

Strangely, she seems to be having just a bit of trouble matching the right shade of blue - it's probably due to the dim lighting; it _couldn't_ be her intent - and as she does with most things, she feels the need to do that properly as well... It's as she casts the Spell - _so_ atypically - for the _fourth_ time that she notices the small container of Scar Scarcefying Salve on the end table next to her chair. 

It's there where she left it. The plate with Hagrid's Rock Cakes seems to have been Banished. Nothing that odd really...

But the thing is, the _Salve_ seems to be glowing, _too_. 

Faintly, there's no question, but it's like the little pot is another source of light in the room's darkness. Which makes even less sense than the Professor's glow. She knows as she thinks it that it's simply her mind playing tricks on her. It's the only explanation. 

This is some kind of strange... projection on her part, and...  
  


It would unquestionably help if she understood house elf magic. If she grasped that when an elf casts a Lumos, as they don't make use of wands, the Charm automatically _must_ have a different focus, then perhaps this would seem less puzzling. _Far_ less puzzling. Of course, then she'd have to ask why Sunny feels the need to cast a weak Lumos on the Salve, instead of just applying it himself, say, but she's blissfully unaware of his culpability in this as in other things. 

She stands there, blanket in hand (now the _proper_ shade of deepest blue, thank you very much), turning back and forth from the Salve to the bare chest before her she is quite certain _hasn't_ been treated as the Matron instructed... And it's really an easy leap from there.

Or so she thinks.  
  


She takes the pot of Salve in hand and kneels on the floor next to the Professor. That seems... wise. Steadying, at any rate. The blanket beside her, momentarily forgotten, she unscrews the lid, and discovers her mouth has gone dry. She dips the fingers of her left hand, three of them, into the Salve. It's cold to the touch, and she applies a Warming Charm; anything else would be rude. And more likely to wake him abruptly. 

She shouldn't like to imagine what he'd do _then_. 

And then she immediately _does_.  
  


She wasn't expecting it, she certainly wasn't braced for it, and it's completely overwhelming as it rushes over her. The question, unasked, 'What would he do?' certainly didn't require explicit answering. And the most probable answers, the most _realistic_ were _far_ from... _explicit_. 

_He'd yell,_ rightly so _for her taking such liberties, and send her packing,_ hopefully _to her room,_ possibly _to the Gryffindor tower._

But unbidden, there's a flood of thoughts, disjointed, vestigial images from those recent Potion induced fantasies, washing over her, leaving her reeling as surely as were she pulled under, tumbled and buffeted by unrelenting ocean waves.

_fucking.sucking.growling.howling.begging.pegging._  
_biting.licking.pulling.pushing.scratching.tasting.teasing._  
_lusting.thrusting.gasping.grasping.groaning.moaning._

It probably doesn't help in the least that he's doing plenty of those last two as is, or that she can smell him (and likes the scent of the man), or that there's so much of him exposed, or that she's seriously contemplating laying hands on him, uninvited, no matter _how_ ostensibly noble the cause... And isn't the question of _consent_ a seriously sticky wicket?

And all of her thoughts are unreasonable, _completely_ improbable, more like _impossible_ , like all of her answers are _wrong_ , and she's failing her N.E.W.T. in... what? _Life_? _Intimacy_? _Definitely_ that, she's _so_ _failing_ that. 

But all of those wrong answers were also so thoroughly... oof, almost combustible, really, and she _swears_ she's having some kind of flashback to Friday night on that fucking potion and every last erotic thought... Well, yes, it sort of was a _Fucking Potion_ , now wasn't it, and it's _too soon_ , and that _wasn't_ funny - well it sort of was, but still - and she's pretty sure that's... this... 

_This_ isn't how any of _that_ works. 

She struggles to breathe again. 

And wonders if this is some kind of panic attack. 

She supposes it is. 

Her pulse is racing and she just...

He moans and becomes more agitated, his head tossing miserably back and forth, and it shakes her out of her downwards spiral. 

Quite naturally, that means she resumes thinking.  
  


Slowly she begins to realise some things. She's been kidding herself. Pretending she's fine. This doesn't seem fine. This _isn't_ fine. _Fine_ is something else altogether, but definitely not... _this_. She's beginning to suspect she lost something Friday, that something was taken from her, and she doesn't quite understand _how_ because _nothing_ happened. 

She can't say it often enough. 

But it's like no one who matters is listening...

The fact she keeps saying it _silently_ should tell her _everything_ she needs to know about that. But then: _she isn't listening_. That was rather the problem. 

Instead she's practically shouting inside her head. Insisting. 

_Nothing happened_.  
  


So why is she struggling to breathe?

This seems like some weird sort of puzzle that she should be able to figure out. She's bright. If she applies her mind... 

She stares at the Professor and it isn't helping that lump in her throat any, both his chest and the damage to it would probably be cause enough on their own. Taken together and with everything else... She doesn't have a prayer. 

She's very conscious of the fact she's alone with a half naked man. This isn't some boy. No. _Everything_ about the body beside her screams 'man'. And not just _any_ man. He's simultaneously the safest and most dangerous man on the planet as far as she's concerned. 

The danger is clear. The latent... threat. She categorises it _precisely_ as that, and that too would be revealing were she paying attention. She understands - perfectly - _intellectually_ \- that if she is going to... Were she to... Oh, for heaven's sake. If she is going to have... _sex_ with _anyone_ it will be with _him_ , and it seems right at the moment that's a _terrifying_ thought. And aren't the implications of _that_ just as terrifying? 

Just how fucked up is she?

It's nothing personal, which sounds wrong but isn't. It really isn't. In fact, she'll allow that she might even have a bit of a crush after that rescue Friday. Why wouldn't she? It's not even embarrassing... Well, maybe just a little, but not because of _him_ , no, that's all _her_ and her mortifying little schoolgirl mindset. But goodness knows, it _had_ been rather crushworthy. Just like the vast majority of those fantasies of him Friday, which is equal parts relief and terror inducing. Because it's easier to nurture that. To pretend she's still _capable_ of that. That's far simpler than the alternative, admitting she might be too... 

Damaged. 

It's easier, too, because she's also utterly serious that he's the _safest_ man she knows. There are two truths, one fairly excruciating - she's quite certain he doesn't fancy her in the _least_ , which is sort of decimating, particularly in light of him being her only possible partner. And the other, the other truth goes a long way towards fuelling her crush. This man would _never_ force himself on her. She knows - firsthand - the lengths he is willing to go to ensure he would _never_ , _could_ never do such a thing. 

There is _no one_ she trusts _more_. 

Which makes the fact she's having a panic attack at the thought of touching him even scarier. If not him, then _whom_? Who could possibly make her feel _safer_?

And she very much doesn't want to be that... _broken_.  
  


She isn't crying. Yet. There are no tears. But if she'd like to keep it that way, and she very much would, she has a hunch she _really_ should take a Calming Draught tonight. Calming should be enough. Not Peace. 

But she can always take a second. If she really needs it...

In fact, that's _such_ a good idea, she Summons one now and then can't figure out how to open it with one hand sort of occupied... She settles for uncorking it with her teeth and throws it back a little desperately. Telling herself, _assuring_ herself, she's not some kind of junkie...  
  


And so there she kneels, suitably warmed Salve now cooling on her fingers, hovering there, mere inches - less! - from their goal, the physical representation of her uncertainty, wavering over the very visible, _angry_ red lines across his chest. And she's an _arse_ , because he clearly needs her help, and why the hell isn't she? Helping?

There's a little, largely futile, wetting of her lips, followed inexorably by some even more futile attempts to swallow. It feels like she's trying to get one of Hagrid's biscuits down again. Possibly worse. 

Right there, so close she only needs to move another inch to touch it, right _there_ is the spot her head had rested Friday as he'd carried her to safety. While bleeding, _profusely_ , from these many cuts all too clearly still in evidence. And she sits here like some ninny... Well, _kneels_... 

Still.

It's medicinal. It's helpful. It's perfectly logical. It's only _humane_ , for goodness' sake. It's what the Matron prescribed, and she can't begin to explain why he wouldn't have done it himself. Well, she sort of can. He'd probably been too... whiffled. Or maybe this goes back to what Madam Pomfrey had been so upset about, that he _doesn't_ take proper care of himself. Or allow _her_ to. 

And Hermione is in the perfect position to do something about it. 

_Literally_.

She can fix this. Him and her both. If she can do this, she isn't _irreparably_ broken. If she can do this, she can _help_ him. And she _should_ help him. That's practically second nature for her. No, the ~~desire~~ , that is to say, the impulse, the _impulse_ to fix this, him, herself, that's not strange. 

What's strange is her _hesitation_. 

And so, however hesitantly, and there _is_ a visible tremble to her hand, she reaches out to put the Salve on his chest.  
  


What could go wrong?

  



	82. 11 11v Tuesday - Problem Salving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hermione 7G (Prefect), Severus, Sunny, Harper Hutchinson 6S (Prefect, Chaser), Dennis Creevey 4G, Ella Wilkins 6S (Prefect), Hunter Hutchinson 4S, Pansy Parkinson 7S (Prefect), Millicent 'Millie' Bulstrode 7S (Reserve Beater), Alberta Runcorn 7S, Vincent 'Vince' Crabbe 7S (Beater), Aaron Avery 6S (Reserve Chaser), Sheldon Shafiq 6S (Reserve Chaser), Roísín Rosier 6S, Portrait Salazar Slytherin_   
>  _Mentioned briefly:_   
>  _Newton Kurz 4H, Mrs. Kurz, Phineas Nigellus Black (one time Headmaster), Boadicea Waterhouse (portraitist)_

Harper has made his way back to the Slytherin common room from the Gryffindor tower when Vince and the two witches return. The sixth year Prefect had volunteered to escort Creevey, the younger, back to the Moggies' den, assuming it would provide him with the ideal opportunity to issue any threats necessary to ensure the fourth year kept his wand aimed well away from Hunter. All the greater was his surprise to discover Creevey, _Dennis_ apparently, had fought _alongside_ Harper's younger brother, and it seems considers him one of his _greatest friends_. 

There really wasn't much Harper could think to say to _that_. 

If the fact Creevey's a _Gryffindor_ hadn't made that improbable enough, or his utter... well, _Creevey-ness_ (there could be no question: this was _definitely_ Colin's younger brother), the _Muggle-born_ aspect _surely_ did. And then there was the perturbing matter of Harper knowing _nothing_ about it. _At all_. He hadn't an _inkling_. 

Fortunately, _because_ Dennis is a Gryffindor, it's highly unlikely the boy picked up on that. Harper played it reasonably cool, kept his Exploding Snap cards close to his chest (at the risk of powder burns, but then that's what a Protego is for), and let the younger wizard talk. And talk he did. 

He could scarcely contain his enthusiasm that Harper was _so kind_ as to see him back home. Really it was _so_ good of him, but _so_ in keeping with everything Hunter had said... Dennis had heard _ever so much_ about him, it would seem. (In stark contrast to the _nothing whatsoever_ Harper had heard about _him_.) And he was just _thrilled to bits_ at the chance to get to know Hunter's older brother. As Dennis is a Gryffindor and not a Slytherin, presumably that wasn't even sarcastic, something Harper needed a moment to wrap his head around. And he would also argue that sharing a short walk hardly constitutes 'getting to know someone', particularly when one party insists on doing all of the talking, but he could see no advantage - yet - to disabusing the little Moggie of this illusion. 

Squinting, just a very little, he could sort of see the similarities between the boys. Not in their appearances, obviously. Creevey's pale fair skin and thin, light mousey-brown hair, so long it hangs in his eyes, is almost as far removed from the Hutchinsons' dark complexions and close-cropped tight black curls as possible. Harper supposed if the little Gryffindor tried, just a _little_ harder, perhaps he could be as blond as Malfoy and then they'd truly be diametric opposites. No, there's nothing similar in their looks beyond their diminutive statures. Harper has long suspected Hunter's small size draws some abuse from fellow students who see him as an easier mark, as if _that_ had anything to do with magic. If possible, Creevey is even smaller. 

But their natures seem... comparable, and there was something all too familiar in the excited way... Dennis nearly skipped along beside him, no sign left of the Jelly-Legs Jinx about him, and rabbiting as he went. Both boys have something a little too soft, too enthusiastic, too open, too... vulnerable about them, and Harper wondered if their size, the vulnerability _that_ and their characters suggest, if that had led them to connect somehow, despite their Houses. 

He listened to Creevey speak of some of his adventures with Hunter and - always assuming the mousy haired boy hadn't been completely addled, never a given (and with Gryffindors, notably difficult to determine) - realised the boys must spend a great deal more time together than Harper could ever have imagined. Hunter has been keeping rather a lot from him. 

As Creevey blathered on - Harper was only half listening - he tried to assess when this... friendship had started and its purpose... He could easily guess why Hunter hadn't mentioned it, and for that very reason asking _him_ about this wasn't likely to be fruitful... Glancing at Creevey, Harper had practically smirked. 

All it took was a single question. 

The answer proved... disquieting, however. 

"Well, y'know, it's rough sometimes, without your mum. Hunter, he gets that. Newton, too. But then, you'd know what I mean, right?"

No one, but _no one _, _ever_ mentions the Hutchinson boys' mother. She's been dead now for almost fourteen years, she died when Hunter was just a baby, and _still___ there's a shadow over those events so dark and far reaching... It's simply not spoken of. 

And suddenly he understood how they came to be defending _Kurz_. A little band of lost boys, missing their mummies... If memory served, and it generally did, 'Newton's' mother will undoubtedly be _the_ Mrs. Kurz. The one who had gone lost in an infamous Floo misfire over a decade ago. Rare things, those misfires, it had been over a century and a quarter since the last serious 'case' (the terrible Tillyman-tragedy of 1855, which had ultimately proved essentially a wilful hoax), and the Kurz-catastrophe had caused a notable downtick in Floo usage for some time in the mid-80's while everyone panicked. _That_ , in turn, had caused a notable uptick in Apparition accidents, and the number of splinchings had skyrocketed. 

He can remember his Aunt Hildegard, a Healer at St. Mungo's, complaining bitterly about the native stupidity involved. _They were more likely to be hit by the Knight Bus than be lost in the Floo Network, especially with Ernie Prang at the wheel, but did_ that _stop them crossing the street?_

Ironically, her fiancé Borage Bingen, also a Healer at that noble establishment, was hit by the Knight Bus shortly thereafter, had something of life crisis and moved to the Norwegian Fnords. Rather predictably, that brought him _no_ peace in the least (but was another fine example of what comes from reliance on Geminioed texts and the difference a single letter might make) but certainly put an end to their engagement. Alternatively, if that rift hadn't been caused by the distance suddenly between them - Portkeys aren't unheard of after all - then it most assuredly would have occurred when she was forced to pick up the slack on their ward. Borage for his part took to drinking copious quantities of elf wine and eventually forgot his troubles. And almost everything else.  
  


Harper hadn't responded to Creevey's explanation, or rather, at best non-committally, not that it registered, and mulled over how best to go about making the inadvisability of this association, particularly in the current political climate, clear to Hunter. He suspected it would prove a great deal more difficult than he thought. 

When Harper returned to the Slytherin dormitories, he found his little brother in the common room, entertaining their Housemates with tales of his Battle (it was clearly capitalised in the retelling) with the Ravenclaws. Ella, who'd been kind enough to see him safely back, threw Hunter the occasional fond glance as she did her homework at one of the tables, the anticipatory but nevertheless gentle smirk on her lips in all the right places indicating she'd heard much of this before, presumably more than once even. 

Hunter had gathered quite an audience, and whenever the others refused to believe his recitation, he'd call on Ella to verify his version of events. She couldn't say much, naturally, to what had transpired before she'd arrived on the scene with Pansy and Harper, just the few things Madam Snape... er, Hermione had mentioned, but _that_ part of the story in and of itself proved so incredible, the others found themselves increasingly willing to believe all the rest. 

"I _earned_ five points for duelling! For _duelling_! Imagine that! From a _Gryffindor_!" Hunter crooned. Pansy, who'd easily beaten Harper back to the dorm from their trip to the Infirmary, was called on for further confirmation (the assertion was _so_ improbable, Ella's word was simply no longer sufficient, despite being generally deemed more trustworthy that the older Prefect) which the seventh year somewhat grudgingly supplied. "And I bet you, Galleons to Gurdyroots, Madam Snape convinces Professor Flitwick to give those Turkeys detention to boot. And that's _after_ they already lost eighty points, too. _Eighty_!" There was a great deal of pleased mumbling from all assembled as they considered _that_.  
  


That mumbling is definitively interrupted as Millie and Alberta come belting down the passage to the common room, dragging a bundle of bloodied bandages behind them which they deposit in the room's center with a 'Finite Incantatem' and a thud. 

On closer examination the lump quite unexpectedly reveals itself to be _Vince_. In retrospect that strikes several present as obvious and even redundant. He _is_ rather...

But the display draws raised brows, many of them. As their Head is held in no little esteem, fully half of the brows raised are solitary brows, although that seems to be a habit rather difficult for many of them to cultivate. Vince's condition does not, however, merit even a _single_ enquiry. The shunning has begun.  
  


Alberta begins trying to free Vince from his bindings with a Diffindo, but she's clearly tired from her trek, and her aim isn't what it normally would be. Vince lets out the occasional shriek as the witch misses her mark and cuts into him instead. Harper can't help thinking he looks an awful lot like an Inferi, and surprisingly a good deal worse than he did when Harper had dropped him at the Infirmary some hours before. Say what you will about Pomfrey, he hasn't the foggiest idea how it could have come to _that_.

Millie, indicating the very apparent beating the Beater has taken, turns to Ella to ask, "Is there anything you can do to help?" 

As he's sporting a number of very noticeable knots, the answer is presumably 'yes'. _Technically_. However, as Ella hasn't forgotten the Serpent Vince sent her last year when she showed no interest in a second date with the... _wizard_ , _that's_ unlikely to be the answer she gives. 

"I'm sorry, Millie," she shrugs convincingly, "but I really don't believe I'll be able to help." 

Hunter, to his great credit, hardly blinks. If one weren't observing him closely, and none other than Harper currently are in light of the scene playing out before them, it would have been missed entirely. But Hunter's greatly relieved he hadn't gotten to the part of the story yet where Ella had healed Madam Snape. 

And, honestly, after the abuse Vince had given Harper about Crankshaft just today... Well, neither of the Hutchinson boys much minds seeing Crabbe ignominiously stretched out on the floor. And both can more than understand Ella's response. They won't say a thing. 

Millie unfortunately insists she _try_ \- frankly, if Millie's on your side, the girl makes a good friend - but Ella naturally finds the pressure unwelcome. Put on the spot as she is, she simply waves her wand thoroughly ineffectively a few times. They're lucky it hadn't led to any further miscasts, but Ella is careful by nature and not nearly vindictive enough to have handled it differently. But once she says as much, pointing out the risks involved, Millie finally accepts the defeat. 

_That_ exchange calls to mind something some of the girls had been whispering about amongst themselves, however. The person Millie seems so eager to help has - it's considered effectively _proven_ \- behaved in so _egregious_ a fashion (it doesn't matter that the actions themselves are thoroughly unclear; the girls agree they can be judged by their effects) that the Head was _bonded_ in response. And Vince in particular had done something he was so certain would meet with general censure, he hadn't opened his Poste Serpente in front of them. No, they're convinced... 

_Vince_ no longer deserves this sort of solicitude. 

Roísín Rosier nudges Pansy none too subtly, indicating the girls gathered around Vince's prone form with her head and then jerks it back to their dormitories. Pansy nods and, raising her voice, calls out to the others, "Girls' meeting in the seventh years' room. Now." 

It's imperious, but typical, and Ella just returns to the table and packs her things together with a sigh. She'd hoped to do some more reading... Still it's easier and unquestionably faster to just get this over with. 

Almost everyone else seems to agree.

Millie isn't quite prepared to see it that way, however. Vince _clearly_ needs help, and only her friendship with Pansy keeps her from violently arguing with the smaller girl about it. Alberta, although less fond of Vince, is also still nowhere near done freeing him from his bandages, and very much hates the appearance of allowing Pansy to command her about. Both witches begin protesting at once, Vince quickly chiming in that he _needs_ their help, he can't even reach his wand yet... 

But sixth years Aaron Avery and Sheldon Shafiq rise to the occasion and generously volunteer to finish their work for them. With smoothly reassuring tones, that's practically Sheldon's specialty, he virtually ushers Millie to the girls' stairs, Alberta follows a little resentfully behind, and with no further ado, the girls all retreat to their dorms. 

Aaron and Sheldon, both reserve Chasers this year, set to working on opposite ends of their recumbent teammate, although strangely nowhere near Vince's wand hand, which is only likely to prolong this affair. Vince's quite regular protestations would seem to indicate their Diffindos tend to hit Vince every bit as often as their presumed mark, so much so, that one has to wonder if _he_ isn't the intended mark after all. Once Harper sees what they're about, he's of half a mind to join them, but he'd already been perhaps a bit too obvious in front of Nott before. A little restraint can go a long ways. 

Instead he stands there, leaning against the table Ella had vacated, enjoying the (literal) floorshow and listening to his little brother finish telling the boys left still more about his exploits this evening. Crabbe's regular cries do much for the ambience, he decides.  
  


Vince, once free, is forced to accept that the atmosphere in the room is decidedly frosty. For all too obvious reasons, there are none of the other seventh year boys about, and now that the girls, too, have left, he finds himself feeling... outnumbered. And a little friendless. Presumably that will get worse in the weeks to come. 

Quite feeling a number of glares at his back and attempting to ignore the hushed but hostile sounding whispers, he gathers the bits of bandages lying on the carpet, pressing them to him in a sloppy attempt to staunch the blood flow from his many cuts, and shuffles off to bed. It's probably for the best. Or so he thinks. 

Had he anticipated the Kneazle fur in his bed, naturally he wouldn't have attempted it. 

Within minutes he returns to the common room, bits of bloodied gauze fragments affixed to him from top to tail, stumbling and wheezing, his nose even more engorged and reddened, looking, Harper has to allow, far _more_ like an Inferi than he had before. In fact, he redefines it. 

Having exchanged words earlier about his ginger half-Kneazle Crankshaft, Harper can only conclude this is an allergic reaction of some severity. Still, he's clearly _breathing_ , and with the casual disregard that comes far easier when one has never been prone to such attacks oneself, or been forced to witness them in those one holds near and dear, oddly, no one feels disposed to assist the seventh year. Almost as one, in silent agreement they rise, withdrawing to their own dormitories to attempt their counterpart to the girls' meeting. 

It won't be nearly as productive.  
  


And so Vince finds himself alone in the common room, after curfew, in the midst of a severe attack and without help. He's at a bit of a loss. 

"Salazar, help me..." he mutters as he sinks heavily to his knees, for all the good that should do, and then flops onto the floor.

* * *

  


Hermione has finally steadied her nerves sufficiently and made up her mind. She knows what she has to do. It's (deceptively) simple enough. Stretching an initial tentative finger just a little further forwards, she makes the first, gentle contact with the Professor's chest. 

He flinches reflexively from her touch, startling her to a standstill. It _must_ be a reflex, as he still seems fast asleep (which is probably just a politer way of saying 'passed out'). A new wave of panic overtakes her, crystallising first and foremost around the concern he'll _wake_ and _catch_ her at this, and isn't _that_ phrase perhaps more than a little indicative of the fact this is something... _illicit_. By definition, something at which she could be _caught_ , but probably _shouldn't be_ as she shouldn't have even _attempted_ it... And she might have gone on to consider that, any and all of that, but frankly her relief at his _not waking_ is so great, that she doesn't spare any of the rest a further thought. 

For once. 

She attributes his continued insensibility to the alcohol in his system, which is only partly right. The bond does its best to let him know he is safe. Were he aware of the situation, he would probably define that word differently. Fortunately he's not consulted. 

A little stupidly and a bit late, it dawns on her that the Salve on her fingers is now no longer body temperature; it's far closer to room temperature, which only makes sense. A quick refresh of the Warming Charm and, thoroughly undeterred, gamely she gives it another go. 

This time, there's no flinch. Suitably encouraged, it takes so little, really, she spreads the Salve just a bit further along the first of the healing lacerations. It's rough beneath her index finger and that makes her sad. This was a no minor scratch, and if his scars are anything to go by, it was a far too common occurrence. She knows how effective the Salves and Potions are. If he still has _this_ much to show for his... treatment despite proper medical care, then that has been frightening indeed. 

She can't imagine it all occurred at the tip of a cursed blade or from esoteric and poorly treatable curses. That seems... improbable.

Rather like an iceberg, she assumes she's only seeing a small portion, just a faint echo really, of what he's withstood. 

And there's no one here to help see him through it, to fuss over him or lighten his load... She finds that sort of heart breaking. And fails (completely) to observe he's not quite as alone as all that might suggest. 

As her finger strokes further down his chest, following first one wound track and then the next, he shifts, turning to better meet her touch, naturally spurring her on. His groans give way to a soft sigh, which she finds a great relief, and the lines in his face begin to smoothen, so much so she's just a moment away from trying to massage the last stubborn wrinkle from between his brows into submission. 

She wasn't thinking, she was simply acting on impulse, and she catches herself and halts her hand's forward progress, just inches from his face. Looking at it now, she's mortified to notice her fingertip is _glowing_.  
  


The panic she'd felt before is completely eclipsed by what she feels now as she worries that whatever is making _him_ glow has rubbed off, and like some Muggle anti-theft measure, she'll be caught tomorrow with proof she'd dared... Well, she'd most certainly _dared_. She pictures it: caught! Red-handed! Or glowing handed, she imagines... So to speak. And there's a desperate moment of mind racking, wondering what could be causing the luminescence and what the chances are that it will fade by the morning. She could always hide until then...

Pity, really, that gloves have gone out of fashion.  
  


And then in a spurt of Gryffindor bravery, most likely combined rather favourably with some pragmatic fatalism, she recognises that she won't be able to change that either way, and if she has to use a Glamour or Notice-Me-Not, it hardly matters if it's on one finger or three, and in for a penny... Experimentally she resumes her efforts with her middle finger, again tracing the lines across his chest. 

And again. 

And yet again.

She applies the Salve far more thinly than Nurse Wainscott does, and more carefully, conscientiously rubbing it well into his abused skin. If that provides her with an excuse to linger over her task, as she works it gently into the scabs and reapplies it, so be it. But there's nothing thick and sticky in her results, he'll be able to move freely. It probably helps that she has enough experience with wearing the Salve herself; it tends to make one a little more aware of it's drawbacks then simply applying it to others might. 

She's greatly relieved to see that her middle finger hasn't also begun to glow, and so encouraged takes the third, her ring finger, and adds it to the other two. The small band around that finger's base attracts her attention and her thoughts as she works. 

It's probably not surprising that they revolve around the man sleeping under her hand. He seems more... restful now, and she's happy - more than happy - to tell herself that has something to do with what she's doing. If she were still seeking it, it provides more justification for her actions, and reasonably pleased with herself, she continues her work.  
  


Sunny, Disillusioned and watching her from a spot on the window seat, is equally pleased with _his_ work and ends his Lumos on the Salve. Hermione never notices that the small pot stops emitting its faint light, but then, she'd thought she had imagined it anyway. 

All considered, the results had been better than expected, although they still don't quite satisfy his elven sensibilities. Still, _humans_. He has to work with what's to hand. And Mistress had been a great deal more accommodating than the Master would have been, of this much he's sure. 

The elf will just have to keep at it. Fortunately, as a group they are notoriously hard to deter. 

House elves probably shouldn't be the poster children for good human mental health. It may be just as presumptuous for an elf to think he knows what's best for a traumatised human as it is for a young adult to think she's properly assessed the needs of a different species and cultural so radically different to her own after the most casual contact. 

But that never stopped either of them. Hermione and Sunny are in excellent company. 

Considering his work done for the present, Sunny silently removes himself from the room to retire for the evening, and no one is the wiser that he was ever there.

* * *

  


Severus' dreams are a mess, both in content and form. They have been for years now, rather logically coinciding with the Dark Lord's return. Severus assumes it's due to all the Occluding, and is largely correct; he's no longer as explicitly tormented by the things he sees. It's a very sad side effect of over exposure. Until the present, he generally only Occluded when called to face the Dark Lord. Now... 

Well now he expects to be doing a great deal more of that. 

Which means his dreams will only get worse. It's presumably the least of his problems, but it means he no longer anticipates much refuge in sleep. It would have been nice to draw some comfort from somewhere. 

It had taken years for his dreams to return to normal after the last war, for him to recover. He doesn't imagine he'll live long enough for it to be an issue this time around. Small mercies. 

And so it's back to his nightmares. They tend to last longer than his other dreams. 

He'd returned to the Manor, he'd attended a revel, or maybe ten, he'd been on a raid (he's usually spared that), he'd chased a small army of Potters ( _that_ had the potential to be a nightmare for a whole _host_ of reasons) and fired off dangerous spells under even more dangerous conditions... There were casualties. When are there not? 

Miss Granger (and her bikini) had been sadly absent and the dreams had gotten worse, certainly compared to that morning. Which isn't to say he was sorry her bikini hadn't put in an appearance... Really, he probably shouldn't have mentioned it at all... 

And just as his night promises to become as bad as they usually are, just as his chances for a restorative night's sleep seem bleak as ever... Something... changes.  
  


Miss Granger is back (and _dressed_ even, although that green fitted blouse still leaves him discomfited) and she's not arguing this time. She has no desire to lead him from one nightmare to the next, no, tonight she has no patience whatsoever for them. As they shan't be staying in the nightmare anyway, she convincingly argues, there's hardly any point to calling them up, now is there? The insistent little thing puts her petite foot down and demands they go somewhere more pleasant. That _he take her_ somewhere more pleasant. 

He wonders if this taps into his feelings, his _beliefs_ about bonds and marriage, and worries it does, but he has to agree, if the bond has her suffering through his nightmares alongside him, it's hardly right. He owes her that. To at least try. 

And he does. 

And the nightmare scene fades. 

But then he has no idea where to go.

They stand side by side for a little while in a sea of black. Nothing but inky black, darker than the Squid's ink. There's no up or down, no near or far, only nothing. She laughs as she takes a crossed legged seat on... nothing, making herself comfortable for as long as this takes. "It's very you," she quips. 

He scowls. 

"As is that," she smirks. 

"Not very atmospheric," she objects rather amiably. It's more of an observation than a complaint. 

Grudgingly he waves his fingers and stars appear, which is ridiculous. There's no known Spell for that. Not outside of a targeted variant of a Confunding, and that would only change the perception, not the reality. Which is when it occurs to him that's it's absurd to be pondering reality in dreams. 

_Dreams_ , he scoffs to himself. For realism, he should have just conjured fireflies. 

"Better," she immediately approves stretching and then reclining with her hands cradling her head on the nothing. "But isn't there something you'd rather do?" She asks, and there's a flare of panic on his part as to just _what_ his subconscious has conjured as he weighs abandoning this dream for the next before she continues, her manner unchanged, conversational and apparently blessedly free of innuendo and that bikini still (thankfully) nowhere in sight, "What relaxes you?" 

He thinks about that, it doesn't take him long, and then the black around them fades and they're in his laboratory (ironically only yards from where he now sleeps), a challenging Potions problem before him. Several, now that he thinks about it again. She hops up on the counter and watches him work with a smile. He thinks that might even be within the realm of possible responses from her real world counterpart. If anything, he imagines the reaction is far too subdued and snorts to himself at the images of unrestrained hand waving it recalls. 

She hasn't enquired about the portrait facing the wall behind her, for which he's grateful. He makes a mental note to remember to offer the Kneazle a chance to avenge itself on the centaurs on her behalf, too. It's all well and good to mention it in passing, but it's worth nothing without follow through. Were he conscious, he'd probably question this need to keep his promises to a house pet, and then whether a promise had actually been given. 

He's trying to decide which Potion to choose. She forces his hand...

"What are you brewing?" 

He looks at the one before him and determines that it's the Wolfsbane Potion, something most would fail at. He takes pride in his competence. The ease with which he can brew it. These days, his greatest difficulty with the concoction lies in sourcing the ingredients without attracting the wrong sort of attention. (Admittedly he takes pride in his ability to do that as well.) And he knows the humanitarian aspects will appeal to the little witch. (He doesn't stop to wonder whom he's trying to impress, and certainly not _why_. That, too, might have something to do with his deeply ingrained notions of marriage. He'd only take himself for a fool if he noticed.)

"But that isn't what you'd prefer be brewing," she informs him easily enough. But then it's no great feat when she's merely a projection of his mind. "Think about it. What would you _rather_ do?" There's an inviting smile and she doesn't seem argumentative and he finds himself engaging for all he doesn't speak. 

And now the challenging Potions problem yields to another, but this time it's one of his _own_. _His_ version of the Scar Scarcefying Salve. He takes it off stasis and puts it on to brew, adjusting the flame lower than typical to better retain the healing properties of the more delicate ingredients, adding a few non-standard ones, and then stirring, cautiously seven times clockwise, waiting three beats, and once anticlockwise. It's Arithmantically sound, after all. He steps back as it changes colour from the noxious orange of the usual... stuff to a glorious gold. Honey coloured and nearly as sweet, it's far more effective than the common blend, and a good deal more pleasant, too. 

"And what else?" She prompts. She's not unimpressed, she's merely... encouraging. 

So encouraged, he turns again from her to face the counter. And just like that, beside the Potion appears another, and another, and yet another, until the entire surface is covered in his creations. 

Things he can never share. 

He's good at what he does. He just can't always be seen as such. It's crucial to be _useful_ , but not overly much so. Indispensable but not... innovative. It's a delicate balance. Sometimes, in those years between the wars, he'd dared dream of a day when he could brew to his heart's content, do something he loves and enjoys, and finally shine for what he _is_. No more, but no less either. He doesn't want false praise, but he _would_ like to be able to _earn_ the recognition he _can_.  
  


He has no idea why he showed her this, not that he has, it's just a dream. But he wouldn't actually tell her, whatever for? And even if he wanted to, not that he does, the risk is too great to tell the witch whose Loyalty Vow didn't properly take. So it was hardly a practice run through... 

He can't begin to explain the dream. 

But he has even less idea why on earth he's entertaining these thoughts again. He thought he'd long buried them. And to torment himself with visions of lives he'd have rather led... What's the point?

And really, what are the chances any of that might come to pass?

* * *

  


The portrait of Salazar Slytherin looks down on the prostrate boy lying, wheezing, on the common room floor. There's undoubtedly a perfectly good explanation for... this, but he's trying to decide if he cares. 

No, no, he decides, he does not. 

There's been altogether too much tomfoolery on the part of the students for... what's it been? A millennium now? Surely that's more than enough. His patience has worn as thin as his canvas, possibly thinner; he thinks he was never particularly blessed with much to begin with. 

Still, he has a sworn duty, and presumably that's something that matters to a good Slytherin. Or at least his original portraitist had believed to recognise as much in him. And isn't _he_ the quintessential Slytherin after all? He nearly laughs at his wit, except his portraitist hadn't particularly believed he had much of a sense of humour, more fool he (or perhaps Salazar himself for hiding that so thoroughly from the man who'd captured him for posterity after all), and so he finds himself unable to laugh. 

_That_ certainly has a way of making the centuries longer. 

"Well, boy?" He prompts in a suitably disdainful tone, aware of his duty and stepping up. As it were. Portrait lore being as it was when he was painted, he has a _great_ deal less freedom of movement in this painting than the others seem to. 

Typical. 

"What seems to be the problem?"

He's immediately sorry he asked, as the muddled story comes out, tedious in the extreme, amidst much gasping and snuffling of an alarmingly burgundy snout. But it could be worse. The boy could have been painted that way. 

It could be worse yet: _Salazar_ could have been painted that way. 

Vince does his utmost to explain the situation to the reticent Founder as best he can, but the man looks at him like he's something one might find under a log and use for potions, although presumably less useful. The difficulties he's having breathing leave him convinced he needs to return to the Infirmary, but he neither believes he'll make it on his own, nor does he particularly wish to be caught out after curfew. Not with the way _his_ luck has been going of late. Truthfully, that's a good sign that it can't be as bad as he thinks, but then it's difficult to think when one isn't breathing all too regularly. And it's hardly Vince's forte under the best of circumstances. 

But he _has_ done a _bit_ of thinking. For example, he's thought about asking Millie for assistance, he knows enough not to try any of the boys, but the idea of confronting a whole roomful of witches who'd seemed more than a little antagonistic... And he'd only just survived the trip back to the dungeons with Millie's assistance. Merlin knows what she'd end up doing to him if she didn't have Alberta's help. In his present condition it's more daunting an alternative than remaining in the common room untreated for the night. (It's safe to say he hasn't properly evaluated the situation.)

But the portrait does present a possibility. 

"Sir, could you please send for the Head of House? He could sort me, or maybe take me to Pomfrey."

One of the many things that had angered Phineas Black and had led him to commission the portraits that he did was the fact that portraits are only as valuable a resource as the painter was talented and portraits were _prepared_. The vast majority are worth no more than what the artist saw, and if they should prove less than discerning in their view of the subject, or worse, if their own nature is later revealed as so disagreeable or simply incompatible that they were unable to _value_ the subjects' strengths... Well, then these were lost to time. And unless they had been one of very few select individuals to be taught to prime their portraits, then their knowledge too was gone. 

To have such greats as Salazar Slytherin's or Merlin's knowledge lost to posterity... It was unconscionable. And yet it had happened. 

As such, the portrait Vince faces only has very rudimentary skills. But it _does_ have a sense of duty and as such disappears from its frame to see about fetching Professor Snape for the boy.

* * *

  


Hermione isn't a visual person. 

So as she kneels there now, nibbling her lower lip, she's having a difficult time explaining to herself (and fortunately this is _only_ to herself) just how such a non-visual person can come to be so completely captivated by the sight of a man's stomach. _His_ navel appears to exert an incredible pull on her and she can't tear her eyes away. 

Or her hand.

She's almost definitely past the point of doing anything sensible, anything _justifiable_ with the Salve and if she were seeking the proper verb, which she's avoiding at all costs, what she's doing now could probably best be described as _playing_ with the dark hair on his belly. It's deceptively soft and utterly beguiling, and she can't seem to command her fingers to stop. (Although that makes a little more sense, in as much as she's definitely a tactile person.)

If it were her tummy, this would tickle like mad; it wouldn't be possible. She can only trigger a slight hitch in his breathing when she nears his hips. But she instinctively doesn't repeat it too often for fear of waking him. She hasn't taken complete leave of her senses. (A more neutral observer might disagree.)

The sight or certainly the _feel_ of her fingers trailing through those fine hairs creates a highly visceral reaction and she's finding it harder to swallow now as she evaluates that response. The fact she's considering her response at all just now is probably a very clear sign _this_ has left the realm of the medicinal, the _necessary_ firmly behind. She chooses to ignore that fact for a few moments more. 

It makes a difference that this is thoroughly outside her experience. She's never done anything like this and it's compromised her judgement. Completely. 

It makes a bigger difference that she tells herself this is her... husband. And an even bigger difference yet that she trusts him, although maybe not so far as to be sure he wouldn't take her head off at the shoulders if he catches her at this. In fact, in the back of her mind, she's vaguely sure he would, or at least try. Wryly she considers that the Protection Vow might not let him get very far. It probably depends on if it functions better than her Loyalty Vow. Which, come to think of it, should probably forbid this as well... Shouldn't it?

But the biggest difference of all is made by her desire to prove she's _absolutely_ unaffected by the events of Friday - _completely_ so, obviously, because _nothing happened_ \- but if _this_ is how she responds, she's more affected than she can begin to comprehend. 

The term 'overcompensation' isn't wide of the mark. 

She traces the longest of his cuts to where it ends just at the waistband to his pyjama bottoms. She's very keen that he take as few scars from this latest round of abuse as possible. For there to be as few disruptions to that line of hair she finds so... enticing. 

She's back to futilely trying to moisten her lips. Her attempt to swallow sticks uselessly in her throat. 

There's a scar that traverses his abdomen above his navel, thicker than the rest and jagged. (She's traced that a number of times by now.) The hair she's coming to like so much doesn't grow there, and she wants to see to it that isn't the case with these new injuries. It would be a pity were there less of it. 

As her hand travels south, there's a frisson of... something she's eager not to define as her finger glances along the hem of the soft fabric of his low riding pyjamas, but it makes her take note. 

This has gone too far. 

She kneels there blinking for a moment, like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. A dentists' child at that. (A perfectly _idiotic_ inner voice objects that there isn't any sugar here, but then _isn't_ this sweet? So very...) And slowly she accepts that she needs to stop while she interrogates her motives for her actions. 

Strangely, her hand hasn't quite caught up with her thoughts.

* * *

  


Just a moment after exiting his frame in the Slytherin common room, Salazar reappears in his portrait on one of the landings. Headmaster Black had had that lovely young talent Boadicea Waterhouse paint this version of him, and he prefers it greatly. Here he's actually free to _move_ , thank the heavens. 

And he can't say enough how much he appreciates the never emptying bottle of wine, good food and books. Not that he'd dream of communicating that to anyone; it's simply a figure of speech. 

The bloody Baron had been pressed to supply Mistress Waterhouse with as many personal recollections as he could about the Founder, which he'd found inordinately trying but ultimately had been duty bound to comply. Off and on for weeks he'd whispered to her of his days as a student in the wizard's House, the things Slytherin had done and said and taught them. All considered, between the two of them, they'd done a remarkable job, and the end result was that the version of Salazar that is _now_ able to shift between his portraits is a far better, more accurate rendition than what had been before, but sadly still largely devoid of humour. As the ghost hadn't known Salazar in a personal capacity, and as he himself is far from being the lightest hearted individual in the castle, that was probably to be expected. 

This portrait is hung by the Grand Staircase to allow him to interact better with the Slytherin portrait coalition. But above all else, this location makes it possible for him to summon house elves without attracting much attention. He calls for Slinky, the chief elf assigned to the Slytherin dungeons and a very old elf indeed. 

The elf doesn't leave the portrait waiting, no sooner is he summoned than he appears. 

"How may Slinky serve, oh Head of Heads? What does first Head needs of Slinky?"

Few sentences suffice to explain that the presence of the Head, yes, the _current_ Head is requested in the dungeons to ferry a student with Kneazle issues to the Infirmary. The portrait, for obvious reasons is unable to deliver this message himself. Would the elf be so kind as to oblige? 

The elf _lives_ to oblige, and off he pops, appearing just outside the Professor's wards.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit, as ever, where it's due: The Tillyman Floo mishap is canon from Pottermore (https://www.pottermore.com/writing-by-jk-rowling/the-floo-network ) and then I just went ahead and made up the rest, because that is my job, darn it! 
> 
> Along those lines, a heartfelt thanks to all those who've 'reimbursed' me with kudos, bookmarks, subscriptions and most especially all your encouraging comments. You go a long ways to making up for the more off-putting (if unavoidable) things in life. ;-)
> 
> And yet another hands(!) (technically just the one this time) update in the comments. (I finally grew a pair (not extra hands!) and compared definitions with the lab coat.)


	83. 11 11w Tuesday - Snakes' Nest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Pansy Parkinson 7S (Prefect), Alberta Runcorn 7S, Tracey Davis 7S, Daphne Greengrass 7S, Millicent 'Millie' Bulstrode (Reserve Beater), Róisín Rosier 6S, Hestia Carrow 6S (Chaser), Flora Carrow 6S, Valerie 'Val' Vaisey 6S (Chaser), Ella Wilkins 6S (Prefect), Sharon Shafiq 1S, Astoria 'Tori' Greengrass 5S, Ava Avery 5S_   
>  _Harper Hutchinson 6S (Prefect, Chaser), Aaron Avery 6S (Reserve Chaser), Sheldon Shafiq 6S (Reserve Beater), Hunter Hutchinson 4S, Bartholomew 'Bart' Burke 5S, Crankshaft (Harper's half-Kneazle)_
> 
> _**Mentioned:** Draco 7S (Prefect, Team Captain, Seeker), Theo Nott 7S, Blaise Zabini 7S (Keeper), Vincent 'Vince' Crabbe 7S (Beater), Morag MacDougal 7R, Michael Corner 7R, Terry Boot 7R_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For emjrabbitwolf, Madameslytherin, Grooot and all the others who like to watch their Snakes being Snakes. _hissssssss_

"Well, Pansy, what do you want?" The Slytherin girls have all gathered now in the seventh years' room and scattered themselves across the floor and the five beds, and Alberta sounds more than a little peeved. Truthfully, she's mostly annoyed with herself for appearing to be at Pansy's beck and call - she _really_ needs to learn how to manage appearances better, damn it - but she's happy to take that out on anyone who gets in her way. 

"I'm so glad you asked," Pansy replies over-sweetly and not a person in the room thinks she means it. It helps that 'Slytherin' is everyone's native tongue. "I was speaking earlier with some of the others about what the Serpents had to say, and the consensus was we should take measures. We _must_ take measures." Róisín Rosier, clearly one of those 'others', nods supportively from where she sits beside Pansy on the Prefect's bed, and a few conclusions are drawn as to which parties had been consulted, and of which _leanings_ they might be. 

The tension in the room immediately ratchets up. This seems ridiculously dangerous, thoroughly out of bounds, and a conversation that most _definitely_ shouldn't take place in public. They have something by way of a tacit agreement in their House to avoid politics where possible, and this... This appears to be heading straight into the thick of it. _All but one_ of those Serpents had been sent by known Death Eaters. How are they supposed to speak of this without at least touching on _that_? 

Interpersonal connections, _alliances_ are of great importance to Snakes. Merlin knows, Professor Slughorn had elevated making them to an art form, hobnobbing, quite literally, with the best of them. Even if he wasn't as good in the Potions classroom as their Head, it had been very instructive to watch the wizard in action. Their biggest problem in making these alliances, naturally, and certainly in trying to emulate old Sluggy, is that their House isn't particularly... integrated with the others. It's true for most Snakes that they don't form many... associations with members of other Houses until after they've left school, when the true... utility of the individuals becomes mutually more clear. Not surprisingly, those individuals are mostly Ravenclaws. 

Naturally the situation while still in school isn't helped in the least by the pressure they exert on one another whenever one of their own looks for... attachments outside of their House. It's ultimately counterproductive, but the not remotely unjustified siege mentality makes it practically inevitable. They're outnumbered and _need_ each other. These are their connections. They won't be receiving help from other Houses. They never do. They can't afford to not be able to rely on one another, and they do their best to discourage anyone from straying. It's fairly effective.

For the time being, for the students, that means they go to lengths to avoid forcing one another to take a stand on politics. With very few blustery exceptions (somehow Vince springs immediately to mind at that description), few make their positions overtly known, and there's an uneasy truce between the different camps. This approach allows them to continue to coexist. If they only have each other, they won't countenance the loss of even a single one of them. 

So almost everyone, _regardless_ of their personal beliefs on blood purity or You-Know-Who, is _extremely_ uncomfortable at the topic Pansy seems about to raise. 

That doesn't stop her. She doesn't even hesitate. 

"Those measures will be less effective if we aren't all on the same page," Pansy continues. The younger girls begin whispering quietly amongst themselves, the older ones show more self restraint, but their demeanours become surprisingly neutral as if by command. 

"Is it really... _wise_ to discuss this?" Tracey thinks she should at least _try_ to put a halt to this, again feeling forced to be the voice of reason as she had been at lunch. It's not that she doesn't feel strongly about what action _should_ be taken; she does. But _candidly talking about it_ is a completely different matter. She can't picture it ending well for easily half of them, no matter which way this goes. Sometimes her Housemates think things through so poorly, she still can't believe that they weren't all sorted into Gryffindor. Idiots.

Pansy's family has exceptional connections to many of the more fanatical pure-blood families, without being too closely involved in the current upheaval themselves. It's brilliant really, a fragile balance, elegantly maintained. Mere prejudice isn't prosecutable. The Parkinsons will come out on top no matter how the chips fall. It was no coincidence that she hadn't demonstrably taken a stance in the school's politics until the Ministry was involved; certainly no one will ever be able to fault her for being faithful to the _Ministry_. Not that it hadn't cost her dearly, it had, but the _important_ thing was how blame would be apportioned. She emerged smelling like a... Pansy. 

The seventh year Prefect sometimes forgets that not everyone enjoys the same position. Tracey's family certainly doesn't. Currently, graduating and seeking an apprenticeship _abroad_ seems the wisest course of action for her. She only hopes that things don't explode before she's sat her N.E.W.T.s. That's looking increasingly less likely. 

Ironically, Tracey sometimes overlooks that not everyone has her marks or will have the sort of opportunities those afford her. Few have the wherewithal to be confident they can simply leave this all behind them and go elsewhere and make a clean start of it. In fact, most are quite certain they can't. In many respects, this gives Tracey freedoms the majority don't have, much as Pansy's situation does for her. 

Pansy meets Tracey's eyes and twitches a wry eyebrow, trying to silently convey she hasn't completely lost the plot, but nevertheless finds some amusement in Tracey's worrying she has. "Why don't I go over some of the facts first, and we'll see if we're in agreement? Just the facts. There should be no harm in that. And then we'll take it from there if it seems sensible?"

That's met with cautious nods, and Pansy continues. She handles it adroitly. She's learnt some things from her father's managing of their family's public stand on the war that's sure to come. They acknowledge that the individuals who sent the Serpents, no names are mentioned ( _imperative_ , given the audience, as half are wanted men, escaped from Azkaban), are most likely in a position to know what happened. Legilimency is mentioned as highly probable to have been employed to verify the facts. (The passive voice once again proves useful.) They've all heard the terrifying rumours. They are positive, those facts were _accurately_ relayed. And they all know that the senders must be convinced of the truth of their claims in the Poste Serpentes. If they say the boys were at fault for the Head's bonding, all can agree, the boys most probably _were_. 

Opinion is also unanimous that the Head wouldn't have chosen to be bonded - _no one_ chooses to be bonded, ergo, he didn't either - and certainly not to _Granger_. In an effort to avoid divisive subjects best left untouched, there's no mention made of her blood status. As they're agreed Granger would never have been Professor Snape's choice in any event, they needn't expound on the various reasons _why not_ ; the end result is undisputed. 

A little more cautious manoeuvring - a few of the younger girls are less clear as to the reasons and require... judicious explanations - and they manage to also concur that this is clearly down to more of Dumblebore's twatwaffledom, placing the blame squarely at his and the boys' feet. 

The boys had obviously done... _something_ , and the Headmaster had made these demands of their Head in response. 

Easy peasy. Even Tracey has to admit Pansy's handled this well. So far.

There probably isn't much they can do about the Headmaster, although more than one serpentine mind has begun to consider the possibilities, but the _boys_ are a whole different story. 

Having decided action is justified, practically _demanded_ in response to the situation in fact, the question now remains - what should they do?  
  


"Well, why did they resort to a bonding?" Sixth year Flora Carrow asks, and the tension returns. 

There are several objections, mostly asking her to _please stick to what measures should be taken_ , but her twin sister Hestia, less retiring by far and better acquainted with her sister's strengths, raises her voice to override the rest, "Let her speak."

"Thank you," Flora gives her sister a small but appreciative smile. "When was the last time any of you heard of someone being bonded?"

A few heads turn to Roísín, and atypically subdued she answers, "My aunt Rosemary. A year before I was born." Not coincidentally, also the year her aunt had died. Róisín never knew her. 

Most of them are aware the bonding had ended in her death when she and the Wilkes boy had joined their magic. That's the sort of story that gets told and retold, entering firmly into lore. Flora hadn't intended to put her on the spot like that; she'd meant her question rhetorically. "I'm sorry for your family's loss," she apologises sincerely, and anyone less cognisant of what had happened now feels they can connect the dots. There are some clear advantages to working with a room full of Snakes. 

Flora has a gentle way about her that makes it easier to forgive, to assume she hadn't _meant_ to harm. Róisín nods her acceptance and Flora proceeds. "And no one has tried since to our knowledge. We agree we'd probably know if that weren't the case? Bonds are registered with the Ministry after all. Sooner or later, they'd get noticed..." She looks around at those gathered, and more girls nods. Certainly no one objects. Between them, they have many, _excellent_ contacts within the Ministry, and come almost entirely from families that set a lot of store by tradition; had there been bondings, it _would_ have been mentioned. These girls, more so than any other single group in the school, would _know_. "So why did they resort to bondings _now_?"

"Dumblebore," Alberta offers a bit gruffly, still annoyed at being there, even more so that Pansy is proving to be in the right, and irksomely unable to escape as they're all gathered in _her_ room, damn it. But Alberta's correct in that that single word explains a multitude of sins. 

"Bonds can't be dissolved," Daphne answers, more than a little worried about why that might be necessary, especially as the witches were all Muggle-borns, and thinking again about how the ranks of the Death Eaters will ultimately be filled predominantly with the boys they've grown up with. She shivers slightly, involuntarily, at the thought. 

"The Vows," Pansy and Tracey answer simultaneously, trying to draw attention away from Daphne's suggestion to safer terrain. Normally that would have been an argument _against_ a bond, to imply it's a _benefit_... Yes, they feel that's a _very_ alarming train of thought. 

"And which Vows seem probable?" Flora prompts.

"Protection" and "Fidelity" are proposed by so many of the senior girls that no one can tell who has made the suggestions. But it doesn't matter. It's greeted by more nodding. And tittering from some of the Firsties, presumably due to the mention of a Fidelity Vow. The fact all of them know what it is speaks to their House's fondness for tradition. 

"If we ignore the likely Protection Vow for the moment..." Flora begins, but Tracey interrupts her. 

"We _really_ shouldn't. Having taken a _Protection Vow_ , for the benefit of a _Muggle-born_..." Again, the tension is palpable and the group begins shifting uncomfortably where they sit. Tracey could half kick herself, she knows, she _knows_ they shouldn't go there - hell, she'd tried to put a stop to the whole conversation herself, hadn't she? - but now that they _have_ gone there, she can't _not_ mention it. It angers her too greatly. And she'd had some success with this at lunch. Perhaps she can phrase this as neutrally as Pansy has, casting no blame, taking no stance on blood status or the treatment of the Muggle-born, and still get her point across. "That particular combination could easily be a _death sentence_." 

It's a harsh truth, and the girls look to one another, appalled. But there's no dissension there either. Tracey's right. No matter how they feel about the justifications for how You-Know-Who would treat the Muggle-born given free rein, and there is _quite_ a range of personal convictions, one thing is clear, those of non-wizarding descent _are_ at great risk and that Vow is a _horrible_ liability. "I just think we should keep that firmly in mind, _whatever_ we decide for the boys," she wraps up somewhat less strongly, but her point carries. 

Flora tries again, a little more sure that Tracey's point will help her make hers, "If we consider the Fidelity Vow the Professor undoubtedly took," several girls, in good Slytherin form, pink only ever so slightly as they try not to consider that in _too_ much detail, but Flora ignores it, lifts her chin a mite defiantly and goes on, "then I think it might be appropriate to respond to the boys in kind."

"Wait..." Pansy begins to balk. She and Blaise had come to something of an agreement, a highly... _satisfactory_ agreement, and it was looking rather promising that it would continue. This is _sure_ to bollocks that up. 

"No _sex_?" Daphne seeks to clarify with all too typical glee, which garners her a little disdain and has a way of making people overlook the fact she actually got the point significantly before they did. 

There's quiet giggling amongst a couple of the first and second years, the word 'sex' appears to work its own magic, but they're rapidly silenced by less than subtle elbows to the ribs from their classmates. They're pleased to be allowed to be present for such discussions, all of them, but some lack the maturity to deal with it well. There's an attempt within the House to treat the younger girls as equals and not draw some arbitrary age line to determine when they'd be ready for such discussions. But they've found it helps not to stigmatise their burgeoning sexualities. And treating each other as adult has the effect of making them more so. 

"You're suggesting we freeze them out?" Alberta asks, surprised this would occur to Flora, and trying to weigh what this might mean for herself. She _might_ have started something with Vince at some point this year, but it wasn't imminent and it's not like she _has_ to... And he _does_ work her nerves sometimes, and not in a good way. Still, he was _there_. _Available_. Her other preferred options aren't at the school. There _is_ something to be said for sex on tap. 

"Lysistrata," Ella offers. 

"Isn't that the witch who runs Dogweed and Deathcap?" Valerie Vaisey asks, thoroughly confused. 

" _That_ old crone?" Róisín, recovered a bit from the mention of her aunt, queries with her usual disdain. 

"More or less," Flora answers Ella, confusing Val more. "More punitive, less ploy, and no negotiable reprieve."

"That would leave us with nothing but _Ravenclaws_ ," Tracey sounds horrified as she sits there considering the options. Boot? _Corner_? Since Pansy and Draco had definitively put an end to things, she and Draco have been casually sniffing about each other and weighing the risks of coming to a mutually agreeable... arrangement. Politics aside, Pansy had had... good things to say about the blond. And it's not like MacDougal presented much of a threat. She's just toying with the Slytherin. It was extremely improbable Draco would ever land there. And even if he _could_ , which Tracey doesn't for a moment believe, it was highly unlikely the bigoted pure-blood would actually actively _pursue_ a Muggle-born. No, it was little threat to her sought after 'acquaintances with benefits' arrangement. Tracey most assuredly hasn't the time or inclination for anything more. 

It's interesting that no one disagrees with the 'Ravenclaw' aspect of the statement, as it leaves half the school unconsidered. But then, they probably haven't considered that either. 

"Ravenclaws!" Róisín scoffs. "They are but bad shag; they are no able witch's wizards," she quips to general amusement and some agreement. 

"There's always the sixth years," Daphne suggests in a conciliatory tone, but pinking just a little. 

"Who? Aaron? _Sheldon_? _Harper_?" Tracey does not sound appeased. Well, there's her sex life. Buggered. Well, _not_ buggered. _Scotched_. Because Flora is absolutely right, hang it all. Damn. 

And damn again. 

" _Hey!_ " Sharon Shafiq, one of the previously elbowing Firsties, protests in defense of her older brother, now earning her own elbowing for being too loud. They're right of course, as her 'Hey!' can now be heard echoing in the other empty rooms, tannoyed through the girls' dorms. She _does_ need to be more mindful of her volume. Chagrined, she shuts her mouth so quickly there's an audible 'clack' of her teeth. 

"No offence," Tracey placates with only moderate success. Sharon really isn't sure how _not_ to take offence on Sheldon's behalf at that. By contrast, Ava Avery, seated on the floor near the other fifth years on Daphne's bed, had merely snorted her amusement at Tracey's remark, feeling little need to defend her brother Aaron. 

"Harper is nice enough," Ella objects, defending her longtime friend and fellow Prefect. 

"And yet I notice you didn't do more than have tea at Madam Puddifoot's," comes Alberta's pointed reply. 

"Of course not. That would be too much like dating a brother..." Ella tries to explain, but Hestia calls them back to order. 

"Flora's idea is sound. Like for like. It seems fair." With a snort she adds, "And it would leave _them_ with no one but the Ravenclaws, too." Considering their classmates amongst the Ravenclaws (and thoroughly ignoring MacDougal's enviable lippy, especially as no one's gotten up the nerve to ask her where she bought it), there's some laughter at that. Hestia makes an excellent point. 

Less happily than when she started, Pansy turns her head, making a circuit of the room, collecting votes. With a noticeable lack of enthusiasm she announces, "Then we're agreed. No sex with the seventh years." She sighs. 

Everyone nods except Daphne who interjects, "But what about Theo?"

"Oh? Do you have a _tendre_ for _Theo_?" Alberta sing-songs, teasing. She does that a lot. 

Daphne blushes again, she really isn't a great Snake, most Firsties have better control over that reflex than she does, and it isn't even _true_ , but she manages to square her shoulders and answer, "No, but I _do_ like being fair. There were no accusations levelled against him."

"She's right," Pansy interrupts the argument that's otherwise likely to follow. "But we don't know for sure. I'd suggest treating him like the rest until Professor Snape gives us some kind of indication how to deal with him."

"Do you really think he _can_?" Tracey asks incredulously. She's so over the stupid Death Eater games. And likely not to get shagged until Christmas. Her mood isn't great. Pansy gives her another significant look, she's right, naturally, Tracey's being stupid and skirting issues best left alone. Damn. Fine. "Whatever. Blaise _did_ mention that Professor Snape had told him to take his example from Theo."

There's some muttered agreement, until Pansy points out, "But that was when they were caught duelling. It might only have applied to that. And we only have Blaise's and the other boys' word on that. They're compromised; we can't trust it. Or _them_ , at least not on that subject." There's some debate, but she puts a quick end to it, "Was anyone planning on dragging Nott into an alcove or broom cupboard any time soon?" They look from one to another, even the younger girls pretend to consider the option seriously before solemnly shaking their heads. "Then it's moot."

And just like that, the first decision is made. It's simple. Not one of those boys is having sex this year if any of them have anything to say about it. And as they rarely... date outside their House, they in fact have a great deal of say about it. 

"Is that _all_ we're going to do to them?" Tracey asks, thinking they'll get off too lightly. Well, perhaps they won't be 'getting off'... But were that _all_ to befall the boys, there's a disturbing, niggling thought that the girls would be every bit as much the recipients of the punishment as they are. (She thinks of the sixth years again with a shudder.) That seems somehow less than satisfactory. For more than just the... obvious reasons. 

There aren't any immediate suggestions, so Pansy takes the rudder firmly in hand once again, steering them back to safer waters. "Apply yourselves to the problem. We have time. They're not going anywhere. We'll see what we can come up with. And it needn't be a group effort, after all. We're of the opinion action may be taken and we needn't fear reprisals from one another?"

" _Most likely_ needn't..." Alberta inserts with a pointed look and shrug. Pansy should know better. If the others get carried away disciplining the boys, _some_ of them will be expected to respond. 

"That's fair," Pansy readily acknowledges. "No reprisals unless it goes too far, that is. Is that acceptable?" 

"If we took things too far, that would only cause the Professor more work, which seems rather self defeating," Tracey argues in support of Pansy's restrictions. It's all vague enough that's it's hard to disagree with it, and so the Prefect's proposal stands. 

"And what do we plan to do to make the Professor's life simpler?" Flora asks, encouraged by winning her last point and Tracey's mention of his dire circumstances earlier. Of course, looking at Tracey's expression, at this point she's less likely to agree with anything else Flora says tonight just on principle. She mouths 'Sorry' at Tracey, and the older girl responds with a grimace, but finally nods, albeit somewhat grumpily. 

There's some mumbling, a few useless suggestions, and finally Hestia takes up the challenge. "Tracey had the right of it. The Protection Vow is dangerous. We could..." Bloody hell, this is tricky. "We could try to see to it he isn't called to... act."

That's met with an explosive response, characteristically rather soft-spoken, but laden with feeling, and she leans back and allows the other girls to argue themselves into a calmer state. They'd agreed today to publicly support Madam Snape and to take a demonstrative stand against any abuse. But _this_? Goes too far. It sounds very much like Hestia's been thoroughly _Confunded_ , and there's a quiet riot of dissension. Flora shoots her twin a nervous look, but Hestia shakes her head slightly. She has no problem weathering the storm. They'll wear themselves out. 

It doesn't even take them long. 

Once they're quieter, Hestia starts again, "I'm not suggesting we act as her protective detail..."

"Do you know, I think the Baron already is," Daphne interjects. Ella slowly nods her agreement. It sort of fits really. The ghost _had_ kind of appeared from nowhere to request assistance for Granger-Snape... Hermione, and if he'd been present to know about the previous injury, presumably he's kept a bit of an eye on her... Tracey, still in a bit of a strop, somewhat sulkily nods her agreement as she considers the Baron's appearances that afternoon. He'd certainly made an impression on their way to Herbology. 

"But can he really do anything to stop a Curse?" Millie wonders. 

"I'm sure he can make you regret casting it," Pansy smirks, but it's friendly. "Very much so, in fact. But you're absolutely right, Millie, in that he might not be able to stop things from happening that would cause the Vow to force the Professor to have to respond. That might be relying too much on common sense in the heat of the moment."

" _Uncommon_ sense," Tracey corrects mostly to herself. 

"We don't even know that he took a Protection Vow," Alberta practically whines, already not liking where she sees this inevitably leading. 

"When you can give us a compelling explanation for why there was a _bonding_ without the need for a Protection Vow, I'll happily revisit that with you, in the meantime..." Pansy shuts her down. Millie gives Pansy a soft smile. She likes that Pansy is gentler, more _patient_ with _her_. And honestly she likes that Panse is less tolerant of Alberta. She tries not to smile too broadly, and if she weren't in a roomful of Snakes, the effort might even be deemed a success. 

"So can we agree that we should see about helping to ensure the Professor isn't forced to act on that Vow?" Hestia looks at the others, but they're less sure about this. This... this kind of action could get them in trouble, and doesn't sit well with many of them for all too obvious reasons. It's _far_ easier to condemn themselves to possible celibacy than... well, this. They're effectively agreeing to protect a Mudblood, Muggle-born, whatever. There's a lot of head shaking. "I'm not suggesting we take an Oath on it, but..."

"Merlin's bollocks, people," Tracey interrupts, losing patience. She does well avoiding the issue. As long as no one starts, she's fine; in fact, that's a good part of the reason she tries to deflect from conversations like these. But Merlin knows, once they do get started, she has a thin veneer of control and it's been sorely tried today. 

Well, she'd basically started them down this path, it's only right she stand up for it before it fizzles and dies. "Don't you understand? A Protection Vow is basically a _Geas_." That's met with a lot of stricken looks. The very notion is _appalling_. As it should be. "Hestia's suggestion has _nothing_ to do with Madam Snape and _everything_ to do with _him_." It doesn't matter if that statement is true or not, they simply need a defensible party line that works for everyone. Unfortunately, that's generally more difficult than people imagine.  
  


The House's official version of events, their 'truth' is Professor Snape had bravely fought in the last war - for the winning side - as a spy for the Order. Every single one of them pays lip service to it, evincing a conviction that other Houses find rather unexpected on the topic, but quickly learn not to openly challenge. Of course, they're missing the point. Fair enough. It's complicated. 

Roughly half of the Slytherins believe that narrative, Dumblebore's Legilimency skills serving as proof. They also largely assume their Head is continuing in that capacity. The opportunity for him to do so is afforded by the degree of stupidity - rarely paralleled - that some of the pure-blood supremacists regularly exhibit. (Again, Vince comes unbidden to mind.) That stupidity is generally met with some disdainful smirking about 'inbreeding', which is naturally what comes of crossing their bloodlines too often in increasingly shortening cycles. 

Unsurprisingly, this half is comprised of disproportionately high numbers of the half-bloods and skews more strongly towards the younger students. 

The other half believes their Head had cleverly fooled the powers that be to escape punishment after the Dark Lord fell. To a witch, they don't find it disloyal that he lived to fight another day. Anything else would have been foolish. Pointless. This group is divided on his current role, however. 

A few hope he's stayed out of it; they're generally pitied as simple. Some feel he might have now changed sides, relying on a repeat of the last outcome and working for Dumblebore from the outset this time around; they're seen as completely ignorant of the Dark Lord's power. Many of the rest assume he's gone back to working for the Death Eaters, spying _on_ the Order, and a very few of them are _sure_ of it. Whether they approve of the affiliation or not, they feel the proof is found in the improbability the Professor (or anyone else) would be able to trump the Dark Lord's reputed Legilimency skills. 

The remainder assumes he came to regret the... unfortunate choices of his youth (and then look askance at the seventh year boys), but that he now has no option of sitting this one out. Their presumption is he's now forced to play both sides, possibly indifferent to the actual party doctrines, and simply hopes to come out of this alive. They can't help but notice that he treats the half-bloods amongst them every bit as well as the pure-bloods, and for the most part shows no great deference to bloodlines. And when he infrequently does, or rather: _appears to_ , that supposed deference is frequently a very mixed blessing. It also hadn't escaped them that the abuse Pansy had taken as a Prefect her fifth year was a fate Tracey by contrast had been spared. Just for the sake of her CV, it would hardly have been worth it. This group tends to keep their thoughts very much to themselves, and as such aren't judged for them by the rest. They're wide of the mark on several counts, obviously, but Severus would approve of their shrewdness. 

For the most part, the argument, _never_ explicitly conducted, boils down to whether one believes Dumblebore or the Dark Lord is more easily fooled. And that's where many of the _Slytherins_ miss the point: all that matters is that the opposition, _whoever_ that ultimately is, _can_ be fooled. It isn't _at all_ about measuring the strength of the opposing sides.  
  


Tracey has a better read than most on the dynamics of the fragile truce within their House. She's needed to have it because she is very aware of her family's lack of connections. She's a half-blood who can't point to the presence of any member of the Sacred Twenty-eight in the family's recent past, and - _worse_ \- they happen to think the pure-blood rubbish is complete bollocks. Hmm. Yes. But she's probably one of the brightest in their House. She can do this. 

"If we agree that the Head deserves our loyalty," she pauses and waits for the other girls to nod for her to continue. "And if we agree that his situation, as we understand it, is perilous," the nods are more reluctant now, not because they disagree, but because that agreement will probably cost them, but they _do_ agree. Unanimously. "Then we should probably _also_ agree to make an _effort_ to help him. Especially as we also are agreed this was not his fault."

There's no explosion this time. There's a lot of looking back and forth, but no one has a counter argument they'd care to offer to those statements. Tracey was banking on it. It's equally problematic in their midst to admit a concern for having to justify effectively protecting a Mudblood as it is a worry that shielding a Muggle-born will put them more probably within the sights of Death Eaters' wands. Neither side wishes to clearly proclaim their colours. 

Tracey's 'should' is really the only issue up for debate.

But then matters of ethics aren't the easiest of debates. Especially when they're unable to truly discuss the consequences openly. They spend much of the evening weighing their individual responsibilities in this while dancing adeptly around the manifold topics they mustn't mention. 

_Despite_ leaving so much unsaid, this is the most honest group discussion that any of them can remember. Pansy had learnt a valuable lesson from their negotiations at lunch today and applied them well to this new problem. It leaves the girls feeling more united, which is fortunate, as the boys' nebulously defined involvement in the bonding had threatened to be highly divisive. 

Bit by bit, they coax each other out of their reserves until the girls ultimately reach an agreement that, to the extent they safely can, certainly as far as they _easily_ can, they should indeed make an attempt to keep the Head from having to act on his Protection Vow. And if standing by their Head's wife projects an image of House loyalty, there's no harm in that. Merlin, they'd decided that much before the Serpents had hissed a single sibilant tone. Nothing they had to say changed that. And even the boys at the centre of this had seemed to feel it was right.  
  


And the girls agree, if their actions benefit a single Muggle-born, it could hardly change the course of things, now could it?

* * *

  


In the sixth year boys' room, Harper has gathered the other non-seventh year boys around him. He has a much more difficult time calling them to order than Pansy had with the girls, though, and as he deals with their muppetry, it occurs to him that he's usually good for interjecting and not _leading_ these sorts of things. Bugger. _His_ role is to point out the flaws in strategy and opportunities overlooked. He's finding _this_ a lot less... fun. 

Fellow sixth year Aaron Avery, as a mere Reserve player all too eager to make points with the Prefect, Chaser and next year's probable Team Captain, turns a freezing Aguamenti on some rambunctious fifth years in a bid for quiet. That, however, only draws the very vocal protestations of Sheldon Shafiq, not unpredictably as they were seated on his bed, and a very brief exchange of Hexes promptly takes place. 

Also not that unpredictably. 

" _Enough_!" Harper shouts. He's _really_ already had enough, and they haven't even begun. He throws up a respectable Protego to at least put an end to... this. It would have helped _more_ if it hadn't reflected Sheldon's last Hex right back at the caster, and he's now sporting glittery, purple fairy wings, of all things. Perfect. Well, that was new. Daphne would probably just _love_ them. He'll be sure to mention it. 

Harper runs a hand over his head in frustration, an advantage of his close-cropped hair being there's no trace of the gesture when he's done. Hunter gives him a too wide smile, bless his little heart, and follows it with a _thumbs up_ , for _fuck's_ sake (Harper blames _any and all_ association with Creeveys for _that_ , with no doubts or hesitation, and wonders that he hadn't suspected it before), the fourth year _truly_ lacks subtlety. Wilfred Wilkes, seated beside him on Harper's bed gives Hunter a good poking to the ribs until he tones it down. It ends in giggles as it must. 

Crankshaft, Harper's ginger half-Kneazle who'd cleverly taken cover when the Hexes began flying, now hops up on the bed and curls himself onto Hunter's lap batting the boy's chest until he gets sufficient control of himself to begin petting him. It's rewarded by a steady stream of rumbling purrs that make Hunter smile. 

Shaking his head, Harper addresses Sheldon, whose wings are now fluttering, and the sodden fifth years that had been gathered around him have slid to the floor to give them more space to beat, "Will you need to see Pomfrey about that?"

"Merlin, no! I'm not going _anywhere_ like this," Sheldon hastens to assure him, not really answering the question in the process. 

"It's unusual, I'll give you that," Aaron sort of praises the Hex, relieved not to be the one sitting there flapping. 

"Mum has quite the collection of books," Sheldon explains almost proudly enough to forget his wings, _fwump fwump fwumping_ behind him. 

"Is it going to go away on it's own, or do you know the Countercharm?" Harper tries to drag their attention back to the matters at hand. He gets the sense he's going to be sorry, very sorry, they're about to dismiss Draco as their leader. Looking at the group, there are two with bright pink hair, one in vibrant green pumps (people so rarely protect their footwear against Spells as they do their clothes...), three sets of antlers (the Anteoculatia seems en vogue again), one horn (spiralled), and a Bedazzling Hex that has rendered the upper body of one of the third years so bright he can't directly look at it, presumably by targeting his shirt. 

Splendid. 

Say what you will, the boys are prolific Hexers. And probably need to spend some serious time practicing their Protegos. Nits. If the Professor catches wind of this, the whole lot of them will be practicing just that until the Christmas hols. It makes a difference that they trust one another not to go too far. But still... Poor showing all around. 

"Right. _I'm_ not going to be the one to explain to Professor Snape what just happened here..." Harper starts. 

Bartholomew Burke, one of the sopping fifth years, a slight boy, improbably more sallow than the Head himself, chuckles something about _interrupting him during his honeymoon_ and Harper rounds on him with the full fury the boys have fanned. Or maybe that was Sheldon's wings. 

"Really? _That's_ your response? You think _that's_ appropriate?" The Drying Charm he unleashes on him is so strong, the boy begins to squirm in his seat, and soon his robes start to steam. The other boys on the floor around him begin scrambling to slide over for a second time, this time trying to get well clear of _him_. Hunter grins a little; he knows his brother and trusts him not to let things get out of hand, but he doesn't altogether mind watching Bart steam. The fifth year can be a bit of a plonker. 

" _Why_ do you think we're here, Bart? _What_ were we about to discuss?" 

Honestly, a couple of them have to think about that, unclear on their goals from the outset, and a handful of others need to recall it to mind. A good hexing is so diverting... 

Harper just stands there envying Ella. For one thing, Pansy has almost definitely taken the girls' counterpart to... _this_ off her hands. And somehow he doubts they're over there hexing each other. He also can't imagine next year, when Pansy's gone, that they'll have to face anything _remotely_ of this kind. It's not like the Professor could be pressured to get bonded _twice_... 

Well, theoretically he _could_ be widowed and then it could happen... But it's not very likely. In addition to somewhat facetiously trying and failing to picture his classmates _ever_ equaling the current seventh years' stupidity (yes, in spite of Aaron's Aguamenti), quite frankly Harper supposes there's a Protection Vow in play that makes the Professor's chances of surviving being widowed virtually... nil. No, this is _incredibly_ serious stuff indeed. 

And he has to drum that into the boys in this room. 

Without exposing his flank. 

Pansy has an easier time of it, no doubt. Everyone is willing to believe she's in line with You-Know-Who and his people. Or not, as need be. The Parkinsons have handled that well. Harper's position is far less secure. More poorly defined. At moments like these, that is a serious disadvantage. But he's the type to rise to a challenge. 

"For disrespecting our Head, Bartholomew, you can tidy up the room." Bart is about to complain, that's _not_ one of the Prefect's punishment options, but Harper's lip curls in a cruel grin, "Or you can explain to everyone else why you'd prefer that I take House points?" _That_ does the trick, and grumbling, Bart gets up and starts applying Drying Charms to Sheldon's bed. The winged sixth year yelps as he leaps clear to let him at it, joining the fifth years on the floor, who now again find themselves having to budge over to make room for those ridiculous wings. 

Aaron is happy to direct Bart to a few things he feels absolutely require his attention. The curtains around Sheldon's bed, for example, look the worse for wear from the good old Avery Aguamenti; just look at those wrinkles. He takes some pleasure in bossing the younger boy around, and can't help thinking it's a pity Professor Snape had done away with the time honoured tradition of having the junior pupils fagging for the more senior set when he became Head of House. Professor Slughorn had had a lot of stories to tell about it. Naturally the thought is more appealing now that Aaron's sat his O.W.L.s and presumably wouldn't be doing the fagging himself. It's safe to assume he'd be less nostalgic were he likely to have to do the work. 

Harper and the remaining sixth years address the various Jinxes and Hexes, and soon, with the very notable exception of Sheldon's fucking wings, everyone is set to rights. Harper will never understand why people learn the damn Hexes without learning their Counters, but there it is. Sometimes he finds his Housemates so utterly vapid, he wonders that the lot of them weren't sorted into Gryffindor. And then he immediately wonders if he's being too disloyal. The thought borders on sacrilege, after all. Looking at Sheldon again, however, sporting sparkly fairy wings of his own casting...

"No, really, I'll be fine sleeping on my stomach," Sheldon tries once again to convince the others to just let this ride. Well, they can always fetch help in the morning. One of the Moggies had been walking around with a tail the other day. This probably isn't any worse. 

Although on consideration, possibly less useful...

Harper just shakes his head again. "Let's get a couple of things clear first, shall we..."

The boys have a much harder go of it than the girls. As the Death Eaters look primarily to _their_ numbers for recruitment, the need to avoid even remotely broaching a whole _host_ of topics is critical. It isn't a tendency to over-dramatise, it truly _could_ be crucial to the safety not only of those present but also their families. That it could actually go so far as to mean life or death was an incredibly painful lesson that Harper had learnt only too well and at a very young age. He's not likely to forget it. Perhaps for that reason, they are _extremely_ lucky that he's the one managing their meeting. While it takes them far longer to achieve far less than the girls do, _no one_ is put in a situation where he has to expose himself or his nearest and dearest. _Nothing_ is said, Harper takes the greatest pains to ensure it, that will have unfortunate repercussions for _any_ of his Housemates. 

He might not enjoy the job, but he's done it well.  
  


They are essentially agreed as to the facts, much as the girls had been. For their parts, they are even more certain that the Professor will have been forced to take a Protection Vow, and that the inevitable result of that must ultimately be death. They speak of it openly. Unless she dies a natural death without _ever_ being in danger first, and even _they_ know she's repeatedly been in harm's way just since starting Hogwarts, the Head will almost assuredly be forced to fight to try to save her. Most likely to the death, because the escalation probable in that constellation can quickly make what _might_ have been a non-lethal threat very deadly indeed. 

Given the current political climate, the precarious future that almost certainly looms for the Muggle-born, _that_ result is all too likely to come sooner than later. They sidestep issues of the justifications and concentrate on the probability of this. They studiously avoid all talk of whether they believe the Dark Lord's forces will ultimately hold the Ministry, and only weigh the likelihood the Death Eaters will ever sieze control. They feel it's a near certainty. And they _don't_ believe she can be saved. 

Which means this... _this_ has been nothing shy of inflicting _homicidal idiocy_ on the man. 

Dumblebore deserves their very worst, they're agreed. And at a complete loss of how to deliver it. It's futile and they quickly move on. 

The blame doesn't rest with the Headmaster alone. 

Deliberations as to the seventh years' actions are quickly held to be useless; it can't be determined and makes no difference. What matters is the _results_. 

They've practically murdered the Head, as surely as if they'd managed to give him a slow acting poison. 

Despite their agreement as to the threat the Head faces, it proves impossible to agree to take active measures to help _protect a Muggle-born_ , his Protection Vow notwithstanding. The risk for many of them should they do so is just too great. They couldn't sensibly do it. 

And yet Harper can't help thinking how precisely _that_ Muggle-born leapt - alone and presumably without any promise of assistance - into a fray of seven duelling boys and helped his little brother when he was outnumbered. She almost certainly had no way of knowing how well the Slytherin portraits are organised. He assumes the Baron had sent for help. 

He accepts the limitations that the Slytherin boys' complicated home situations create; he'd be the last person to insist they put themselves in danger. But he would also be a very poor Snake indeed if he took that as the final word. So he goes over their options with them again, very carefully.

Somewhat ironically, they soon resolve to uphold the luncheon decision to defend Madam Snape against any external slights. They have their House honour to consider. Admittedly the chances of anyone _else_ calling her a Mudblood, say, were quite slim. Still, after further discussion they come to accept that internal slights would be intolerably disrespectful to their Head, and decide to leave off of those. 

But perhaps that public showing of support will discourage any attempts to actually threaten her. Most of them hope that's the case, if only for the Professor's sake. 

Harper is satisfied he's gotten what he could from them on that score, but they won't remain idle. 

As they regrettably can't help the Head directly by lightening the burden of his Protection Vow, they decide they should seek to avenge him. The focus, they are sure, _must_ be on making the seventh year boys _pay_ for what they've done to the Professor. The boys can't coordinate their efforts like the girls have done, again it risks exposure, but there's a suggestion made that they will stand by one another in _any_ measures taken against the seventh years, and that they needn't fear reprisals no matter how extreme the action. 

In this much they are in accord. 

Unfortunately as there's no counterpart to Daphne amongst them (which makes perfect sense as she's a rather singular witch), sadly there's no one to point out that perhaps they should exclude Theo from whatever measures they take against the boys. Predictably, that will lead to the inescapable results. 

The only objection, and frightfully manly young wizards that they are, they all _immediately_ find it _terribly_ sensible, is that _whatever_ they do, it should in no way interfere with the boys' ability to play Quidditch. After the match, it should go without saying, they're fair game. Until the next one, naturally. 

Still, that's a risky strategy, and Harper pulls Aaron and Sheldon (and his godsdamned wings) aside after the others have left and informs them they'll be practicing with him every day on the pitch during lunch right up until the match, just to be on the safe side. They need to be fit to play. They need to be fit to _win_.

* * *

  


"Is there anything else we should discuss?" Pansy asks into the round. It's getting late, it's been a trying day, her Charms are wearing off, and her cheek has begun to twitch. Just a little. 

Ella, helpful witch that she is, poses a question of her own, "Well, is there anything else we should be _doing_? Anything else that needs taking care of?"

"It might help to know more about bonds," Tracey suggests. Several pairs of eyes tick to Róisín. "I was thinking research," she quickly clarifies, not wanting to broach the subject of the sixth year's aunt again.

"Pomfrey's out of Pain Relief," Alberta adds to the pot. "The Head's been out of commission and couldn't brew any. We could take that off his hands." Easy for her to say, as Alberta wouldn't be doing the brewing. 

"Fine. I could do that," Tracey agrees. She's the only one of the seventh year girls in Potions. "But it won't help him much, though. There's no way Madam Pomfrey will accept my work unless it goes through him. And I shouldn't like to be the one to suggest _he_ needs to resort to relying on _my_ help." 

Everyone sees the sense in that immediately. There are a couple of shudders as a few of the more imaginative girls try to picture such a conversation. No, that way lies madness. 

But even if Tracey were to brew it just for _them_ , it would still be helpful, they are sure. And it wouldn't _just_ help them. When they are suitably taken care of, they don't need to seek out assistance, to disturb the Professor. Rumour had it, Theo had resorted to _Stupefying Draco_ after some mishap or another just last night. Mind, tonight they can understand the _desire_ to, can they ever, but put practically, _most_ people would go knocking on the Professor's door first. Of course, it seems he was in the Infirmary, but that wasn't the point. The more self sufficient they are, the less work they'll be. They _need_ to be less work. 

"Thing is," Tracey tries to make clear, "except for Harper this weekend, the only ones who've needed it lately are the boys..." There's no need to expand on which boys she means. It's all too obvious. "After the Serpents today, there's no way they aren't going to want some tomorrow morning. So were you planning on supplying them?"

She directs the question at Alberta, who evades, "Well, that's irrelevant as we won't have any by then." 

Still, it's a matter of principle that needs clearing. All quickly come to the conclusion that if they have their own supply, they can regulate how it's dispensed, and those boys needn't benefit from the fruits of their, well, _Tracey's_ labours. That sits well with the seventh year, and she consents to brew the Potion tomorrow. 

Millie a little shyly and very tentatively suggests _she could take some of the preparation for Charms off Tracey's hands_? Tracey manages to politely decline ( _she's worked well ahead of where they need to be, but thanks for the kind offer_ ) without making Millie either look or feel like a fool. That had been a risk given how much better Tracey is in the course, but then she can be good that way; Millie had relied upon it. 

Flora then offers to help Tracey with the brewing, several others volunteer supplies from their stores, and soon that's resolved. And effectively eliminates Tracey as the obvious choice for research, which had essentially been Alberta's objection to begin with. 

After a bit more polite... discussion, Hestia nominates Ella and Daphne to see what they can uncover about bonds. There's some reflexive groaning at the mention of Daphne (So _kind, thank you_ so _much_ ), her skills are chronically undervalued by the group, and less polite discussion ensues. Not surprisingly, Daphne _really_ wishes she were elsewhere for the duration of _that_ , but her sister Tori squeezes her hand reassuringly for the length of it, and the other fifth years crowded with the Greengrasses on Daphne's bed budge up even closer. Daphne's thankful for it, their silent show of support, wrapping her arms about as many as she can reach. Ava Avery, still leaning against the bed on the floor in front of them, just shakes her head disparagingly. 

The rest of the girls just aren't sure they shouldn't set Pansy onto the researching... They can't _need_ to resort to Daphne, can they? ( _Seriously? Sitting right here, people..._ ) Naturally, they _should_ set Tracey on it, but the consensus is Pain Relief should be a higher priority. Truth be told, both Ella and Daphne are the most likely to quickly be able to arrange for passes to the Restricted Section amongst them, without first having to wait for an appropriate assignment as cover. As Hestia correctly observes, the teachers tend to like them. 

It's decided. 

"That leaves one more thing," Pansy sounds regretful, but it's too obvious an avenue of enquiry _not_ to pursue. "Róisín, do you think you could ask your family about your aunt?"

"Merlin, Pansy, you don't know what you're asking."

"I think I do," she answers softly. Many of them lost family in the last war, and it was _never_ an easy topic. Everyone goes very quiet. 

"My father _still_ locks himself in his study ever year on her birthday and the anniversary..."

"We need that information, though, and he's probably the best source," she answers gently, and no one else wants to interrupt. Most are just glad someone else was brave enough to tackle the topic. It's touchy and Róisín can be... tetchy on a good day. 

"How about the Wilkeses?" Róisín suggests, a bit desperately, hoping, fervently, to avoid this conversation with her father. Her aunt is _never_ spoken of. It's something of a miracle that she even knows he _had_ a sister, or that her aunt's name was Rosemary, or the significance of those two days a year. That had been her Nan's doing, her mother's mum, and she's sadly now gone. There's no one but her father for her left to ask...

The girls leave the obvious objections to Wilkes to Pansy. She doesn't disappoint. "Wilfred is a _fourth_ year. _And_ a _boy_. He hardly has your skill set. You can't really expect him to do a better job of getting the information, can you?"

When it's put that way, Róisín would hate to admit in front of the _entire_ female half of her House that the poxy fourth year is better equipped. She bites her lip a bit mulishly. "Well, you can't expect me to put that in an owl, now can you?"

Many heads turn back and forth, but no one speaks up. Honestly, that was _precisely_ what a lot of them had been hoping for. Damn. Still, it's Róisín's family. She has to know how best to manage them. Grudgingly she offers, "I suppose I can arrange to meet him for the next Hogsmeade weekend." 

That's two and a half weeks off. Well, damn. It probably can't be helped. There are plenty of disappointed sighs, but they haven't much choice here. 

"That would be helpful," Pansy accepts her offer. "I'm sure it will make a difference." 

Róisín doesn't look convinced, but she nods. "I'll owl him to set up the meeting. But not until next week. If it comes now, on the heels of the news... I may as well ask him directly per owl." Many perk up, still thinking that's _exactly_ what she should do, damn it, but then her issue had been she didn't think it would be met with much success. "If I ask him to come, he'll be there," she addresses a few muttered complaints, bemoaning the risks of waiting, and soon that, too, is settled. 

As the matter is deemed adequately dealt with, at least to the extent they currently can, the younger girls rise and begin to filter out of the room. They leave more quickly, eager to talk with less restraint amongst themselves. The older girls are slower to trickle out. 

Tori gives Daphne a hug and a peck good night before leaving with the other fifth years. Hestia sends Flora ahead and then subtly grabs Val by the arm, delaying her departure. With a casual glance towards Millie, she catches the seventh year's eye and faintly nods towards the door. Once she's sure Millie has understood what she wants, she hooks her arm through Val's and steers her fellow Chaser to a spot a little further down the corridor between the dorms, towards the younger girls' rooms. As they've already withdrawn, they should be undisturbed here.  
  


It's not long before Millie joins them. "What's up, Hestia?" They keep their voices low. 

"It's only a matter of time before the others set their sights on Draco more concretely. And those boys comprise four sevenths of our team. If we don't win, we can't prove Draco was right to pick us, to put _us_ on the team..."

"And we can't win with Chasers alone," Val tries to sway Millie. The sixth years on the team happen to be the three Chasers, the other four seventh year boys play all the other positions. As the younger girls see it, next year their Reserve Beater will be gone, graduated, she probably isn't necessarily as invested in validating this strategy as they are. But they don't know Millie well enough. She's _very much_ a team player. 

"We already didn't have practice today. What do you think the chances are of having it tomorrow, if we don't get some Pain Relief into those boys?" Hestia asks her very directly. 

"Not very good," Millie readily admits. She can see Hestia trying to think how best to phrase this and saves the younger girl the bother. "What do you want me to do?" That wins her two broad smiles. 

"Do you think you could... arrange something to get some of the Potion from Tracey tomorrow? Perhaps claim your monthlies were... Well, I'm sure you can think of something," she backtracks at Millie's raised brow. Millie is one of the ones that has the Head's single brow raise down pat. For the subject, it somehow seems even more disconcerting. "It's just, you're a Reserve player and it might be more obvious were either of _us_ to ask."

"No, that's not a problem, I can ask. You're right, it will be less noticeable if it comes from me. I doubt she'll just so happen to give me four doses, though. She did explicitly bring up the issue of giving it to _them_ after all." 

"Which is why I think three doses makes perfect sense. It would carry you through a day," Val suggests. And then with a cautious look at Hestia goes on, "We were thinking we might skip Vince."

That gets them another raised brow. " _He'll_ probably need it more than the others. Well, save Draco."

"Which means he'll play less effectively anyway. It's just Pain Relief, it's not a miracle. We were hoping _you'd_ play for him instead."

"Val, I can't actively sabotage him! He helped get me on the team in the first place!"

"No, no of course not," Hestia hurries to mollify her. "That's not at all what we meant." Well, it _was_ rather, but apparently it's too direct. Not an issue. She can regroup on the fly, and Val knows enough to leave her the space to do so. It's why Hestia had held back so far. "We were thinking more along the lines of not interfering with the other girls' plans as much in his case. We can't afford for it to become too blatant, and running interference for Draco is likely to risk exposing us enough. And we really _need_ him, or who else would play Seeker?" 

Before Millie can volunteer Harper (but honestly, he's _just_ not as good in that position, and Aaron, who's the Reserve Chaser, naturally isn't as good as _he_ is in turn), Hestia hurries on, "A sacrificial lamb would provide a distraction," Millie is about to speak up again, but Hestia knows how to reach her, and holds up a hand to silence her scruples, "and you have to ask yourself why he opened his Serpent in private." 

It's an excellent question, and they stand there letting that sink in for a while. Of course, they have no idea he'd just been hoping the other boys wouldn't blame him for whatever it was he did. And there's no question that fewer witnesses increased the pain. As far as they're concerned, Vince must have very badly wanted to keep something from the rest of them. They can't help wondering what, or how much he knows or suspects...

"I won't sabotage him," she lays out her limits very clearly. Sometimes that helps. In this case, it allows the girls to better work with what she's willing to offer. As she feels that's probably in her interests as well... No, it's the best approach. 

"Things _will_ get bad for the boys in the coming weeks and we _really_ need to win. We'd like you to think, seriously, about playing that position for the match, if need be. To begin preparing for it. We also need you to speak up about staying people's wands until after the match. It will be better coming from you, and Pansy _listens_ to you. We need to get them to concentrate more on helping the Head and less on taking out half of our team shortly before we're supposed to play the damn Moggies."

"Merlin, Hestia, I don't know that I can. I mean, I _can_ , but if you need to win that badly, _believe me_ you want Vince to play."

"Don't sell yourself short, Millie. You're better than you think. With practice... And if we can win with _you_ , it just goes further toward proving our point. It's all well and good to have you as a Reserve, but it's untried. Untested. We need you playing and we need to win."

Bugger. Er, that is to say, drat. Yes. That. "Ah. Well, good to know there's no pressure then." Millie's shoulders sag. 

"We can help you, Millie. We _will_ help you. What do you say we get in a little extra practice? Lunch, every day until the match." Because that's the problem, isn't it really, with being a Reserve player, that even during practice, there was never enough incentive to train _her_ instead of the boys, the first string players. Had it been Alberta making the suggestion, not that she's of any use on the pitch, Millie might have taken it for a dig at her weight; from these two, she takes it as it's meant. 

"But we _won't_ sabotage him? We let the chips fall where they may? If he's fit to play, you'll be fine with that?" Hestia and Val share a look and then nod. Millie accepts it, and she isn't wrong. But the other girls are quite sure, _without_ their protection, and they _don't_ mean to give it, things won't look good for Vince. They might be more kindly disposed towards their teammate had he not tried to send poor Ella that Serpent last year. He had no way of knowing it would be a squib. 

No, they're clear where they stand. Millie needs a hand to get up to speed, and Vince... Vince is beyond their help.

* * *

  


Much like the girls, the boys come away from their meeting with a feeling of mutual understanding, solidarity and purpose. In spite of all the topics they leave untouched, many frightening things were spoken of openly, and yet when it was done, they were all still there. That takes some of the fear out of things. It leaves them thinking maybe, just maybe they aren't as alone or as impotent in this as they often feel. That perhaps, when the time comes, they'll face the worst and come out on the other side. It gives them... hope.

Suitably wound up by their meeting and the things discussed, at random intervals the boys will wander back into the common room where they will find Vince has indeed settled in for the night, fast asleep and wheezing on one of the couches. He hadn't returned to his bed. The presence of Kneazle fur there made it a highly unwelcome prospect, and as Hermione could attest, it's more difficult than one might think to Banish all the feline's fine hairs. And Vince was in no shape to try. 

That's unlikely to change for the better after a night kipping - unprotected - where almost _anyone_ could stumble upon him. 

From his House that is. How unfortunate for Vince that his Housemates currently aren't all that kindly disposed towards him. 

Given the lack of coordination to their attacks, it should come as little surprise when no less than _eight_ different Charms, Jinxes and Hexes are performed on Vince's sleeping form that night. 

A couple of fifth years, eschewing pink, will Transfigure his hair a mouldy green (inspired, no doubt, by some of the looks Snotter had sported intermittently since the Dribbler interview), and a small contingent of the fourth years will render his nails permanently black until they grow out, collectively adding to the Inferi look Harper had been sure couldn't be topped. He'll happily revise his opinion tomorrow, however, in light of the new evidence to the contrary. 

A Desiccation Charm of Aaron's will turn Vince's entire back to cracked leather, which still might not be _too_ bad, were Sheldon not to decide it's safe to apply the fairy wings to the sleeping seventh year once his own disappear in the wee hours of the morning. They _should_ be vanished in time for practice, after all. As Sheldon will hit Vince with more intent than he'd meant for Aaron, the Hex will be likely to last a good deal longer and the things will be _monstrously_ large. (And Harper's suspicions that Daphne would love them will later be confirmed. She will practically coo at the sight.) It will be an excellent initial test of their pact, and not a soul will reveal who might have done _any_ of this. 

As the wings will naturally flap involuntarily, Vince might be prone to screaming at the pain induced by the reflexive movement of his leatherised skin, but an old family Hex of the Burkes that will be deftly applied by young Bartholomew (still steaming, albeit less literally, from the night before) will stitch the Beater's mouth ever so tightly shut. But Bart will feel sure that won't negatively impact the boy's ability to play Quidditch. No one catches a Bludger with their _teeth_. Well, not _deliberately_. 

Bizarrely, some Spell no one's even heard of will make Vince's ears keep fluttering, annoyingly in arrhythmic counterpoint to his fairy wings. The assumption will be that it is an incorrectly applied Jinx from the third years, but the 'don't ask, don't grass' arrangement will leave things unclear as to what it had been _meant_ to do. Instead the less than perfectly cromulent application of whichever Jinx it was will prove much more bothersome and far harder to lift than were they to have performed a known Spell, much to their general delight and retroactive satisfaction. Cursing _might have_ taken place under the circumstances, but again, with his mouth sewn shut, Vince will be unable to do so. 

The remaining fifth years will manage to brazenly embiggen his nose, a human Transfiguration of which they're inordinately proud and a direct result of their rigorous swotting for their O.W.L.s. It emerges as particularly unfortunate given the pain the appendage was already in. And of course it will be Harper's fairly esoteric Sticking Charm that will glue the boy so thoroughly to the couch, and unintentionally enable most of these Spells to be safely and effectively cast through the night. It will be so thorough, so robust, in fact, that there will be some talk of having to cut Vince free in the morning. 

After his experience with his Housemates' Diffindos from the evening before, that will be greeted by undignified whimpering, but then Vince won't be capable of much else. 

The only reason his condition won't be worse is because many of the people who apply the Spells in the dead of night will come in groups, the girls will be unaware he is sleeping, easily accessible, in the common room, and the younger students won't quite trust to their Stealth Charms. Were they to know Harper's Sticking Charm will be fixing him firmly in place, they might well go a little crazy. Fortunately for Vince, they do not.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Twatwaffles served, presumably with syrup, by Carols_Sister. Thanks for that. ;-)


	84. 11 11x Tuesday - Unexpected Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hermione 7G, Severus, Sunny (the Snapes' house elf), Slinky (the Slytherin House's chief house elf), Portrait Salazar Slytherin (Founder), Vincent 'Vince' Crabbe 7S (Beater), Luna Lovegood 6R, Portrait Phineas Nigellus Black (One-time Headmaster), Crookshanks_
> 
> In which Severus wakes and wonders WTF?! Miss Granger is doing...

Slinky approaches the door to the Head of Slytherin's private chambers and is about to knock when Sunny, the wretched creature, appears immediately in front of him, barring his way, of all things. The audacity! There's a bit of bad feeling between the two, even after all these years (although it may be mostly one sided) as Slinky - by far the more senior elf in service - hadn't been given Sunny's position as the Master of Potions' very own personal house elf when the most honourable Head had replaced the Slughorn. Naturally Slinky has no way of knowing what other considerations the Headmaster may have had when he made the assignment. For all his occasional bursts of independence, Sunny can be relied upon to keep Severus' secrets from anyone likely to do him harm, and that, more than anything else, had quite sensibly been the deciding criterion. 

Although his name hadn't hurt. 

Still, Albus could have negotiated a renaming had it come to that. He has few scruples. As was, he took it as a sign it was meant to be.

Sunny casts a silent Privacy Charm and draws himself upright, his miniature teaching robes with their buttons of jet in sharp contrast to the tea towel uniform Slinky wears. It earns the younger elf a displeased shake of the head, it's _most_ unseemly, but at least he isn't one of those thoroughly disreputable _free_ elves. That would be the final insult, of this Slinky is sure.

"What is Slinky wanting of Master of Potions?" Sunny challenges, pushing the grizzled elf further back from the door by advancing on him. 

"I's be telling the Head hisself, I's be doing. Sunny is not needing to know."

"No!" Sunny objects, raising one of his little hands in outrage and pointing a knobbly finger at the other elf's chest. "Sunny _is_ needing to know," he insists, poking Slinky's chest, "for the Head is _not_ being disturbed." There's a wave of magic, _strong_ elven magic, as Sunny suddenly opens his hand, flicking his fingers outward and Slinky finds himself blown backwards, clear of the wards that unlike the humans they both can feel quite distinctly. Faster than Slinky can shake off his surprise, Sunny rushes him, drawing himself up to every inch of his diminutive height and commanding, " _No one_ is being disturbing the Head tonight. If you is _needing_ help, you is telling _Sunny_."

At this point, that's probably the _last_ thing Slinky is about to do, and there are a good many perfectly stupid solutions he would prefer. By elven logic, governed by some very singular rules, those extremely wanting solutions may not appear quite as stupid as they do to humans, but even things he can objectively recognise as frightfully poor solutions seem highly preferable just now. 

They bicker briefly, Sunny holds his ground, he doesn't even let the other elf get close to the wards again, assuming any disturbance in the field to be more likely to wake the Master, and that's not on as Sunny sees it. 

He's done his very best to get the Mistress to help the Master. The Master had needed help, that much was clear. He hadn't taken care of his wounds, after all. And the Mistress, she seemed... reluctant to... lend a hand. Not uncaring. No, not that. Mistress cares, of this Sunny is sure. Perhaps... shy... Well, the Master can be... difficult. _Humans_. No, they obviously needed his help, they did. They're _bondmates_ , after all. They aren't very smart these humans, they so often fail to see what _needs_ doing. And he won't be having some other pretentious elf coming and making a hash of things. It's out of the question. 

Slinky has become more easy to frustrate in recent years, having had to accept far too many decisions he doesn't at all like, and with a huff of self-righteous elvery, and a crack _far_ louder than need be - he can be silent when he chooses, after all - he Appartes back to the landing to tell the waiting portrait of Salazar Slytherin that the Head is still too ill from yesterday's assault to be disturbed. He's interpolating from the facts he has, and his explanation is within the realm of the probable. 

He's taking liberties, obviously, but then house elves do that given a chance.

* * *

  


All together, it hasn't taken long, and armed with the knowledge provide by the House's chief elf, Salazar returns to his portrait in the common room. The boy quite unsurprisingly hasn't left his spot on the floor. That may have been too much to hope for. 

"You. Boy." 

There are only seventy students in his House, and certainly by the time they're seventh years, no matter _how_ disinterested he is, Salazar has come to learn their names. He _knows_ this is one of the Crabbe line - 'Vincent', if he's not mistaken, after the maternal grandfather - but he also has the impression that this particular boy has so _poorly_ grasped what it was supposed to have meant to be a Slytherin that he refuses to acknowledge that he knows his name. That _that_ might be a tactic should really be expected of the portrait of Salazar himself. 

"Boy," he verbally prods again, and it's greeted by a moan. "I'm afraid I must disappoint you. The Head is still recovering from his injuries and is unavailable. He cannot come to your aid."

A more protracted groan answers that, followed by a weak and wheezy, "But he wasn't in the Infirmary."

Frankly, the portrait couldn't say anything to that one way or another as he hadn't thought - or perhaps _cared_ \- to ask the house elf about the Head's whereabouts. He naturally has no intention of admitting that, how absurd, just as he never lets the students know that he simply asks a house elf to do his bidding in order to fulfil their requests. He greatly prefers the impression it leaves otherwise, that he might be capable of more than the average portrait. Plainly his painters had thought him somewhat vain. A bit irksomely, it leaves the possibility open that the Baron had as well. 

That's probably not altogether wrong, although 'proud' would have been closer to the mark, both in terms of the reality and the Baron's perception of it. 

Still, somewhat superciliously, Salazar replies, "One needn't be in the Infirmary to be poorly. Take yourself, for example." Vince lets out something that sounds suspiciously like a death rattle, as if to make the portrait's point while simultaneously emphasising his supposed need to be brought to the facility - and soonish, if you please - but Salazar is unimpressed. Heavens know, he's seen worse. "It merely makes it more comfortable. 

"I imagine."

Vince has no good reply to that, and continues his noisy struggle for breath from the floor. 

"If you aren't currently in your death throes..." At that Vince _does_ look up, his glance somewhat murderous. The portrait is unmoved, and not just because of the inferior portrait magic that prohibits much motion in this particular painting. "No, I thought not. Then I fear you'll have to wait until the morning so that someone can see to you. 

"But if it's truly that bad, might I suggest levering yourself up off the floor and onto the nearest couch?" Frankly, the sight of one of their _seventh_ years sprawling in such an undignified manner on the floor was offending his sensibilities. He can't believe the boy or one of his Housemates wouldn't know a suitable Charm - or ten - for this. Disgraceful. Just what are they teaching them these days? Some modern balderdash like Arithmancy, no doubt. Newfangled things. It will doubtless go out of fashion soon enough, just give it another couple of centuries...

Naturally, the fact the students' meetings to discuss what they should do about the seventh years having taken place in their quarters meant that the portraits weren't aware how things currently stood in the House. Experience shows, they have only to wait, and soon they'll know all. Or near as. By morning, having observed the various comings and goings and hexings and jinxings, they have a pretty good idea that the Snakes have decided the Serpents' claims warrant an... appropriate response. 

And they'll also have an excellent feeling for just what that might be. 

Erstwhile Headmaster Phineas Nigellus Black in the group portrait hanging across from Salazar gives the order that holds their collective tongues through the night, and they never once cry out to alert the sleeping boy to his plight as his Housemates do quite the number on him. The other portraits know enough to realise Black is... sharper, more... _there_ than the rest of them. He seems to have retained more of the wizard's own knowledge than the others have of their subjects, and acceding to his qualifications, they defer in this as in so many other points to his patently superior judgment. 

It hadn't hurt, of course, that so many of them have him to thank for their extra portraits. 

So if _he_ says they should let the boys hex away, undisturbed, then naturally they shall do just that. 

And by morning they're agreed, the fairy wings had been a _very_ nice touch. Well done, indeed, by Mr. Shafiq. None of them can recall seeing _that_ one before. But the third years really need to work on their Ear Engorging Jinx. That had gone strangely awry. Salazar (typically) blames the curriculum's excessive focus on Arithmancy, for this and so many other things, completely ignoring that it's an elective, and that on the outside any third years enrolled in the course haven't been exposed to more than a couple months of the material at the expense of anything else. But then that particular portrait isn't inclined to let details interfere with his convictions. Not when the theory was so neat.  
  


An unintended consequence of the little game of Chinese whispers - elf to elf to portrait to boy - that took place this evening occurs when Vince is freed from the couch, healed of the worst of the Hexes and writing home tomorrow, and he mentions that Professor Snape had still been out of commission this evening, despite having stayed in the Infirmary all the previous night and much of the day. Those gathered at the Manor and present - as always, given their fugitive status - when Crabbe Sr. reads his owl, will take that as further confirmation as to just how much the bonding had taxed Snape. It would be worrisome, were they inclined to worry about the man. With few exceptions, they are not, but it certainly provides food for thought. 

And if they underestimate Severus as a result, that might just prove helpful.

* * *

  


The movement of Hermione's hand across her bondmate's belly is arrested by a strange disturbance to their wards. A flash of panic that he could wake has her withdrawing the offending member with lightning quickness to rest at her side, although the Salve now carefully, and so _thoroughly_ , applied to his muscular chest and her own kneeling presence beside him would probably be sufficiently inexplicable as is. Not that she should need to provide explanations; presumably he would be able to draw his own conclusions. 

The man's not completely daft. 

Briefly, at the back of her mind, doubts begin to gnaw at her as to what she'd been doing. So very typically, _after_ the fact. She _really_ needs to work on that, and promptly adds it to her mental 'to do' list. She quickly tamps those doubts down to listen instead to the wards, as the Professor had taught her to do, and believes she can identify that someone, or more likely two someones have passed, which is odd given the hour, past curfew as it is.

There had been a brief moment where she half expected a knock, she imagines that must be a question of proximity, that they'd approached the door. Yes, she thinks that seems to correspond to what the wards relayed. But then perhaps the individuals didn't even know the door was there. Most can't see it after all. 

Odder still, the ripple she feels to the wards isn't... It's not like it's been before, when the students were coming and going. That feels a little as though she were on a boat, and there's a gentle wave, like from the wake of another boat, that sets it to rocking, ever so slightly. Or how she imagines bat sonar, echolocation might be physically represented. 

If she's going with water, she should probably use dolphins for the analogy, and yet... Looking at her bondmate, she grins softly, almost affectionately, remembers her quip to Corner at lunch and can't help thinking, _this_ is the dungeon bat's cavern after all.  
  


But this... it isn't that sort of disturbance to the wards, somehow. It's softer yet. There's something fundamentally different about it that she can't define, and she finds herself wondering if perhaps this is how it might feel when the ghosts cross them, or perhaps when Mrs. Norris goes mousing. She may need to ask the Baron and Crooks to help her trial that. 

She certainly _won't_ be waking the Professor to ask. 

She looks at him sleeping there, his lashes long and dark as pitch curving in a soft sweep against his pale skin and half laughs to herself at the very notion. 

He's still sleeping soundly, and she's pleased to note it. Something mischievous in her asserts that he's more agreeable this way. That inner voice is more mischievous than she'd expect, and wondering just how she meant that - because Merlin knows there's something _quite_... agreeable in his current dishabille - she finds herself now blushing at the thought. Which doesn't make it any less true. 

He seems so much more restful than before. She kneels there, just watching him for a while, and for someone eager not to be caught doing so, it's somewhat curious behaviour. But she's enjoying taking advantage of the situation (it _is_ really, and yet she can't find it in her to blame herself for it, not at all) and appreciating the sights on offer, as it were. Had he wanted his privacy, he should have retired to his room. (And then she tries hard not to feel guilty - the Calming Draught helps - that she's encroaching on him just by sharing his quarters like this, because she's sort of tired of guilt and ultimately it's rather inconvenient.)

That stubborn strand of hair has fallen back over his face again, it really seems to have a mind of its own, and she gently tucks it behind his ear with a low, "Goodnight, Sir." As she rises, she uses a Tergeo to remove the last traces of the Salve from her hand, noting as she does so that her finger is still glowing, before wiping both hands reflexively on her jeans. Rather peculiarly, her palms seem a little clammy. 

She sighs deeply as she stands there looking at him, her... husband, and with a faint smile she can't quite fathom, but luckily only half notices, she casts an Impervius on the man, the couch and the blanket that's still lying, all but forgotten, on the floor, and then bends to retrieve it. Slowly, cautiously, she spreads Madam Pomfrey's gift over the Professor's sleeping form, taking care, without waking him, to tuck him in well. Very well. Oddly, once again, the Charm for doing so seems to have _completely_ slipped her mind. 

Well, she'd only just learnt it, now hadn't she?

She sort of hopes that he's drunk enough to think he'd tucked himself in. That would probably be helpful. 

And as long as she's hoping, she may as well hope he thinks he'd applied the Salve too, of course. Or perhaps that he assumes Sunny had, which is funny in as much as Sunny obviously _hadn't_ , but his matchmaking measures _had_ been the reason she'd thought to apply the Salve to the Professor in the first place. Not that she'll ever know that...

She's very satisfied to see that the colour she'd Transfigured the blanket now perfectly matches the throw pillow that's cradling his head, his face pale against it, his hair inky black and fanned out around him, the contrast still stark in the weak light. It was absolutely worth the extra effort she'd taken with matching the colours, getting the proper blue, she's sure. He shifts, noticeably a little more restless now that she's gone, and his bare right arm closes over the blanket, pressing it to his chest and nudging the edge up towards his face. He almost appears to snuggle into it, seeking its scent. She assumes he's attracted by the notes of lavender and forgets she'd been using it enough that it probably smells faintly of her. But then she wouldn't be able to imagine why that might be a comfort for him. 

He inhales deeply and stills again, and she stands there like a numpty. Watching. Her hand wrapped around the phial at her neck as she does so, her thumb running idly over her ring. She could probably do that all night...  
  


There's a shifting, a crackling from the fireplace, and the soft sound shakes her out of her reverie. Feeling almost as if she's been caught in some spell, she shivers, slightly, and crosses to the kitchen where she Summons a serving bowl from the open shelves by the door and places it on the island. A careful Incantation (the Charm _is_ new to her), a few waves of her wand over the bowl, the room around her and towards her room where a certain feline lies, and she's performed the spell to collect Crooks' shed fur and deposit it there. It would seem she's Banishing it to a receptacle after all. 

There's a hint of an idea that he'll see that in the morning and be pleased she kept her promise. That seems likely. Because _clearly_ that will be the _first_ thing he wants to see. To have this proof and unequivocally _know_ she solved that fairly trivial problem. Priorities, after all. Hmm. He most assuredly wouldn't have a hangover or anything more pressing to think about... Well, really, as a Potions Master, he should be able to sort the hangover if he has one. Anything else would probably be weird. Or masochistic. 

Still, she's looking forward to teaching him the Fur Banishing Spell tomorrow. Sort of like how he'd shown her how to 'read' the wards just yesterday. It had been... pleasant. Nice. Dare she say... fun? She'd like a little more of that. 

She crosses through the lounge again on the way to her room and it occurs to her she still has his handkerchief in her pocket. She removes it, performs a Cleaning Charm, neatly folds it together into an almost perfect square and then centers it under the small jar of Scar Scarcefying Salve with a pat that seems strangely affectionate. For someone theoretically eager to have him think she had nothing at all to do with the Salve on his chest, it seems an odd choice. As no one interrogates her on it, she doesn't even notice it. 

But true to his nature and with a very specific (but otherwise atypical) failure of imagination, Severus will decide that _that_ fact, the presence of his handkerchief on the end table under the jar has nothing whatsoever to do with the application of Salve to his chest. He can be terribly myopic that way.

* * *

  


She pauses in her doorway, turning to look at him again. Nibbling on her lip, she silently wishes him 'sweet dreams', and then feels a little foolish before deciding it was simply polite. There's no good excuse to linger any longer, and she withdraws, but leaves her door ajar. It's another one of those things she really can't explain, or more accurately doesn't wish to try doing so, because after applying the Salve, she _does_ have some sense of her motives. Still, if he needs something, if he calls out, she'll be able to hear. It strikes her as the responsible thing to do, ensuring she can be at hand should he need her during the night. 

That thought, quite deservedly, draws a hot blush, not even the Calming Draught can stop it, because she's being completely and utterly _silly_. She blames it on the turmoil of the past few days. And the whole marriage thing seems to be throwing her. Somehow it seems she has at least a couple of expectations as to what that might mean that are knocking her off kilter. Not anything too... forward, no, no of course not... Well, not by and large. (So strangely, she's having slight difficulty swallowing again.) But surely they're mutually at least a _little_... responsible for one another, aren't they? It's only... natural that she should keep watch. How the man has survived until now without her is a total mystery. 

Now in her room, she dares to chuckle softly at herself. She has no idea when she became so ridiculous. Or her judgment so compromised. She can't explain her behaviour at all. A good thing it is then that no one seems to have noticed it. 

She looks at her desk with her texts tidily arranged, so tidily one might suspect a compulsion at the root of it, and there's a surge of happiness to finally have a space like that to herself. A desk of her own, where she can leave her things lying out - _neatly_ , naturally - instead of carting her books back to her trunk every evening... 

And then promptly finds herself unwilling to sit there. She's having trouble coming to rest and feels... antsy. 

She hops on the bed, disturbing Crooks who 'mrawrs' at her before making himself at home in her lap. She's glad of his warmth, but of course he's well aware of that. Why else would he allow himself to be reduced to a fuzzy hot water bottle? He's not some... _dog_ , for Bast's sake. Which isn't to say he hadn't met an agreeable dog or two in his time. Although it might be worth noting that the most agreeable exemplar had been Sirius not!dog. 

Perhaps he shouldn't count. 

Crooks snuggles deeper into Hermione's lap with a steady purr that helps calm her nerves, and she strokes him appreciatively as she Summons one of the texts from her desk. She flips through it briefly before Banishing it back to the desk with a sigh and Summoning the next, soon repeating the process. The fact she hasn't bothered to light more than the single sconce in itself probably reveals how little inclination she has to read just now. As far as her course work goes, she's more than caught up, there's nothing she needs to do and the more she tries to find something productive to occupy herself, the more she comes to feel there's just nothing she can do right now about anything that _needs_ doing, and an assortment of thoughts she's been trying to avoid begin to nibble their way into her consciousness. 

It had been all well and good as long as she kept busy, as long as she had things to do, things to _respond_ to, and people around her. Alone now, in the dimly lit room, without all the distractions the day had to offer, her thoughts are beginning to encroach on her fragile peace. She's not willing to examine them closely, not just yet, but even without a closer look, intuitively she knows she _really_ doesn't want them bouncing around her head. Not now. 

She flicks her wand and lights another sconce. 

Not unsurprisingly, it doesn't make much of a difference except for in lumens. Which doesn't stop her from lighting a few more. 

It doesn't do the trick. 

Next she Summons her beaded bag and pulls out Luna's candleholders, then rummages a moment longer to find the candles and puts the taper in one and the tea light in the other. She Banishes the one holding the taper to her desk and the tea light in its silvered turnip joins the tableau comprised of the chocolate frog and her wedding bouquet on her improvised night stand. Adding a wedding present to the mix seems... right. And Crooks doesn't mind her using his carrier for that, she's sure. 

An Incendio lights both candles, and there's a momentary thrill at her control as her aim hits home, Miranda Goshawk's warning in the 'Book of Spells' about the dangers that Charm represents to one's books (or classmates, but her priorities being as they are, primarily to her books, obviously) comes to mind. The candlelight improves both the ambiance and her mood. She's smiling a little now, but still, she's restless. 

Three more books follow, Summoned and then Banished. They offer no real relief. She's begun to fear she won't be able to keep those bothersome thoughts from taking over, rolling over her, overwhelming her, when she's suddenly startled out of her musings...

* * *

  


Severus wakes quickly, as is his habit. Which isn't to say he finds himself thinking clearly. He is not. 

He recognises the effects first more than actually remembering, and then bit by bit details filter in as he begins recalling his binge from the afternoon and... evidently most of the evening. Well. That was certainly decadent. And then he recalls his motivations for indulging and decides he'd more than deserved it. 

Bloody hell. 

Two rounds of life threatening torture quickly pale by comparison (Merlin knows, he's been there and done that often enough) as he considers the fact he apparently married a student. Yes. That is never not shocking, he is _sure_ , and he wonders how long he'll wake to that recollection in mortification. With his typical optimism, _quite_ , he decides that's likely to continue for the rest of his life. Alcohol really does _nothing_ to improve his disposition...

Considering that marriage, how could he not, something self-loathing in the back of his mind tries to make a quip about swotty Gryffindors, having a type, and that it had certainly taken him long enough to get around to it... He fails to find it even obliquely amusing and resolves to save the humour for sobriety. 

Then it occurs to him in answer to that charge that he should have sat this round out as well... 

Ah yes, and said student has taken up residence, which brings him back to why he woke. Someone was speaking. He turns where he lies on the couch and can see that her door is open, which he greets with some less than generous thoughts. 

Well, it was damned inconsiderate, now wasn't it, for her to leave the flaming door ajar, especially if she insists on talking out loud or to that creature of hers. He's undoubtably missing that she was keeping an eye on him. She, however, had missed that Sunny generally did that quite nicely, really. But then it suits Sunny just fine that she did. He's perfectly willing to share the watch.  
  


Next Severus tries to puzzle out how he got here to his couch. The last thing he remembers, he'd repaired to his room, was in his bathroom getting ready for bed... He has no idea how he got back out here, why he's sleeping in the lounge, or for that matter why he's not wearing a top given that winter is clearly in effect in Scotland, no matter what the calendar might say. 

A suspicion as to why he may be lying there half-clothed forms, however, when he notices a tightness to his chest as he turns to look at Miss Granger's (open!) door. That tightness combined with a faint scent he recognises, and he believes he has the standard Scar Salve on him, which makes no bloody sense whatsoever. If he's going to use any at all, and admittedly he's only a moderately well behaved patient, he happens to have a much better one. He hasn't the foggiest idea why he'd have used this one. 

Presumably, that's all the more reason not to imbibe in this measure...

There's a spike of panic that Miss Granger might have seen him like this, followed by a petulant 'serves her right' for invading his space as she has, and then that flash of panic becomes more of a lightning strike as he finally pays attention to the voice in the other room. 

"...I worry about you, you know."  
  


There is _no_ question that _that_ is _not_ Miss Granger. No, he knows the voice well enough, and _that_ is most definitely _Miss Lovegood_. 

He lies there in complete and utter shock. He's appalled. The very notion that not _one_ , but at least _two_ students should have seen him lolling, bare chested and inebriated, _passed out_ upon his couch lending new meaning to the word 'mortification', which heretofore he's clearly used far too casually. _This_ is a redefining moment. Certainly for his vocabulary. 

He's now seriously contemplating Obliviates for at least one of those students. 

And then he's overcome by the idea that his _wards_ should be so... diminished - or so _inferior_ \- that Miss Lovegood had been able to just stroll right in, popping by for a chat... It's absolutely _flooring_. 

He supposes it was inevitable that if he had a wife in his cambers, one day he would - eventually - also come to have her friends there. But honestly he'd sort of hoped that wouldn't be an issue until he was dead and buried, or she and said friends had graduated, whichever came first. He _does_ have his preferences. Of course, _very_ unlike most people, he'd prefer to be dead before such an event ever took place. 

That that's not the healthiest of attitudes should go without saying. 

In the second instance, that in the years to come her friends might visit once they'd completed their studies (considering the majority of her friends, he anticipates the need for the adverb 'unsatisfactorily'), he was relying on intimidation, er, that is to say, his naturally engaging personality, to keep any company to a bare minimum. Barer than his chest, it would seem. He blames his drinking for this... visitation, adding it to the lengthening list of reasons not to partake, deciding she would _never_ have dared to permit such an incursion had he been sober. And then he sets to worrying about the _far_ more worrisome _how_... 

_How_ has she done this?

Miss Lovegood natters on... About footwear, it seems. Blackly, he imagines that's _just_ the sort of thing women chat about amongst themselves. _Shoes_. There's more than a little disdain at the thought. 

"... I just don't seem to have any matching pairs at the moment. Nargles, I suppose." 

He lies back, endeavouring to calm himself, staring at the ceiling, and listens to the wards, but he's once again shocked by the results. That's becoming a thing. An annoying thing. He examines that feeling and decides he's rather lucky he's cabbaged and has taken a Calming Draught, all things considered, as this has been far too many shocks to his system. He's at an utter loss and with no explanation for what he senses, and fleetingly doubts his capabilities. He closes his eyes and tries again, listening to the wards more attentively, only to confirm the results. There's _no one_ present within their wards but himself, Miss Granger, her creature and Sunny. 

There's nary a trace of Miss Lovegood.

And yet that's incontrovertibly _her_ voice coming from what had recently been his study. 

Miss Granger is answering now, very much her usual cheery know-it-all self, he almost groans, "I recently learnt a few new tricks, I could probably make you something nice. Would you like me to Transfigure your shoes tomorrow?" He imagines it's like having a couple of the young women from his House camped in his quarters, and turns quite green around the gills. It's almost _definitely_ not due to the alcohol. 

Tonight seems to be a night for surprises, because he's not at all prepared for what comes next, although it does help explain a few things. There he is, genuinely grumpy and decidedly drunk on his couch when a silvery form shoots from Miss Granger's room. Bounding towards him, within moments it stops by his couch before darting, circling, climbing over it, over him, disappearing behind the couch's back, apparently to scoot under the furniture and reappear to his left to repeat the manoeuvre. Again and again, circling him repeatedly, spiralling down his body, before coming to a pause on his shins - finally providing him a chance to recognise it as Miss Granger's otter Patronus - and, of all indignities, proceeding to sniff his feet. Or his toes, seemingly, in the case specific. 

The ghostly form takes a playful nip of those toes (the sensation is most strange) before darting again for the door in the rippling, wiggling way that Mustelids do - if Severus chooses to think of that more in terms of a _ferret_ and less in terms of a _weasel_ , it's probably only natural - before reaching the door and disappearing for good beyond it. 

He lies there blinking for a bit, ultimately deciding this is clearly preferable to the woman inviting people into his... their home, not that he is precisely pleased, before it occurs to him that at least this means he was spared the further indignity of having been seen in his present state by Miss Lovegood. And then he staunchly refuses to think that Miss Granger will still obviously have seen him. It doesn't bear considering. 

Reflexively he pulls the blanket he's sure he doesn't own tighter about him, although inexplicably the thing very much looks like it belongs here, tucking his long feet under it, as if that would keep a Patronus from scenting him. Not that he believes, not even for a moment, that Patronuses are capable of such a thing. They only mimic the behaviour of the animals the represent, after all...

That conviction is briefly called into doubt when moments later a ghostly, silvery hare hip hops its way into his... their home, hoppity hopping up onto the couch and his recumbent form. It comes to a stop on his chest - Severus is so taken aback, he's momentarily relieved he'd just covered himself so thoroughly before he dismisses the thought for the complete rubbish that it is - and then the translucent little lagomorph crawls its way cautiously forward, coming to a rest when they are literally nose to spectral nose. The hare's nose twitches, and twitches again, before it bumps noses with his own rather prodigious specimen and then leaps... sailing clear over his head and disappearing into Miss Granger's room. 

And soon the conversation continues.

* * *

  


Hermione is hugely surprised, although she probably shouldn't be, when Luna's hare Patronus appears the first time in her room. She's equally surprised at its message, and also really shouldn't be, when it turns out that it isn't some call to arms or an alert to some threat. No, it's just... Luna. 

The spectral leveret leaps up onto the bed beside her, and Crooks gives it no more than one half-cocked eye in evaluation before tucking himself more comprehensively into Hermione's lap. And then the room, it really is so very nice, beautiful even, is full with Luna's soft, lilting, slightly dreamy voice, and it feels more like... home. 

"Hey, Hermione, how are you doing? I didn't see you at dinner, and I just wanted to check on you, to make sure you're alright. And see that you're remembering to eat."

Hermione blinks at that before beginning to laugh. Leave it to Luna to send a Patronus for _that_. Well, she'd waited until after curfew so as not to disturb people in the corridors with the sight of her Patronus racing along. Really, that sort of consideration seems very Luna, now that Hermione gives it a think. She smiles broadly, draws her wand and casts a Patronus of her own. 

She may just have used the memory from Friday night when the Professor had clutched her tightly to him and risked his life to come to her rescue. She hadn't even needed to consider which memory to use, it came instantly to mind. That her free hand is once again fingering the phial at her neck as she performs the Spell should come as no surprise, it's becoming something of a habit, certainly when she thinks of him. It takes her no effort at all to conjure her Patronus with that particular memory. It helps immensely that it's limited to that; there's no thought of what he'd needed to rescue her from, or any embarrassment, or the state he was in, or her worry for him once she'd discovered it. Simply that even in _that_ state, _that_ man, her bondmate, her... _husband_ had risked everything to save her. 

She's never cast a Patronus so easily in her life. 

It takes her a few seconds to shake off the breathless feeling the memory leaves her with to get back to the business at hand. 

She gives her otter her answer, a very sincere, "Hi, Luna! What a nice surprise! And what a nice thought. Thanks for caring. 

"Yes, you're right; I wasn't there. I had dinner with the Headmaster instead. But I made you a promise, and I won't forget it. I _meant_ it." Hedging her bets for the days to come, it really _hadn't_ been pleasant at the Gryffindor table the last couple of times, and she means to give it a wide berth for the near future, she continues, "But even if you don't see me at meals, you really needn't worry. I swear I'll be sensible. I'm sure our house elf can get something for me if I need anything. Something _substantial_ ," she adds with a smile, remembering Luna's entreaty. 

"And thanks again for the candleholders, by the way. They're lovely. 

"Say, what was with your mismatched shoes today? A new style?" She shoots for a lighter tone, shying a bit away from why Luna might think she needs checking on. She's fine, after all, isn't she? And then she watches as her otter scampers off at her bidding through her door, beginning its journey towards the Ravenclaw Tower.  
  


She doesn't have to wait long before the hare reappears with Luna's reply. "Glad to hear it. I worry about you, you know. 

"The shoes... Well, it really wasn't a fashion statement. I just don't seem to have any matching pairs at the moment. Nargles, I suppose." 

Thanks to their bond, Hermione's now very much aware that the Professor is awake in the outer room. She wonders for a moment what she should do. She decides against closing her door for fear of emphasising what the link reveals, trying hard not to respond to it, to _him_ , in the process, it seems subtler to just ignore it. 

Not that it proves an easy task.

Again she conjures her Patronus, with a little more difficulty this time. She feels self-conscious thinking of him with him awake and evidently both shocked and stewing in the lounge. It had been easier before. "I recently learnt a few new tricks, I could probably make you something nice. Would you like me to Transfigure your shoes tomorrow?" Her otter disappears, followed immediately by spikes of surprise and annoyance and then some relief through the bond. 

She's still trying to work out why he'd be relieved - as subtly as she can, it's _really_ not her strong suit - when Luna's leveret reappears. "I doubt there's much point," the Ravenclaw's voice responds. "The matching shoe would probably also just disappear. But thanks for offering, though; that's very sweet. Well, I really only wanted to check that you're taking care of yourself. Good night, Hermione. Try to get some sleep, will you? I'll catch up with you tomorrow."

The thought is nice, and it definitely sounds appealing, but Hermione can't help thinking that sleep is unlikely. Still. _He_ seems to be settling and Hermione concentrates on thinking... relaxing thoughts, hoping to put him more at ease. He was exhausted, she's sure of it. But then he'd had a rough couple of days. Unconsciously employing a few of Professor Taylor's relaxation techniques, they're practically second nature now they've practised them so often, she's trying to lull him to sleep. Her answering Patronus comes more easily again when she casts it now.

"I will, thanks. Good night and sweet dreams." And if _he_ happened to hear that and she just got the chance to voice that sentiment in his presence - well, more or less - then all the better.  
  


In the outer room, Severus relaxes again now that the comings and goings, however... immaterial, seem to have come to an end. He cuddles into his blanket, there's no other word for it, but then he's still snockered and can't really help it (and the thing smells bloody wonderful), and tries to get some more sleep. For her part, Hermione sits there in her lovely new room, smiling quite pronouncedly to herself as she feels him drift off.  
  


Sweet dreams, indeed.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now I'm open to your Luna feedback if you'd care to give it, thanks. :-)


	85. 11 11y Tuesday - Must Be Dreaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione 7G, Severus, Crooks  
>  **Mentioned:** Sunny (the Snapes' house elf)

For all Hermione's worry about the Professor last night - and in retrospect, parts of it had been _terrifying_ \- in some regards, it was easier than tonight is shaping up to be. Last night she'd had something to focus on. Tonight she's alone with her thoughts. 

And it turns out she doesn't like them. 

Brilliant. 

She'd fruitlessly tried to interest herself in a few more books, to no avail, and had finally decided to call it an early night and gotten ready for bed. She hasn't had much sleep lately, and could probably do with the extra rest. 

Sound, in principle, less so in practice.  
  


She lies there in bed wrestling with all kinds of things, her inability to make the Loyalty Vow work properly and the fact the Headmaster had somehow managed to... _convince_ her to take yet another one of those bloody Oaths. Sure enough, just as she'd expected, she's _incredibly_ disappointed in herself for falling for that. Again. Then there's also her disappointment with her friends. And _then_ there's her frustration about the library and... Holy Cricket! The library! She's not sure she'll ever be able to return... 

Onerous Oaths.  
Vexing Vows.  
Bothersome books, only just out of reach...  
Even more bothersome librarians rendering them such.  
Still _more bothersome_ friends.  
And the _Headmaster_... 

She can't seem to find the right words for _him_. She isn't _quite_ willing to go there. Not yet. And when she is, she has a suspicion she'll need to expand her vocabulary for the occasion. 

Struggling to be fair, mostly because she's currently not comfortable casting the Headmaster in such a negative light, she tries to decide what difference the latest Oath might make, and has a feeling it won't change much. In terms of things she'd _want_ to do, but now won't be able to, it probably only really affects her ability to speak with Harry and Ron about what had happened under the Whomping Willow that night all those years ago. And it's not like they were listening to her anyway. Gits. She quickly runs into trouble as she attempts to run the permutations through her mind, because she can't, obviously, without thinking about the boys, and she has to acknowledge she'd rather _not_.  
  


One thing is for certain, the Calming Draught is nothing like the Draught of Peace. She wonders why she had thought it would be adequate for her needs. (The simple truth that she doesn't intend to voice is she'd felt safer, more _secure_ \- despite what was probably a panic attack - at the Professor's side. He'll appreciate that, _greatly_ , she is sure. And she most assuredly _doesn't_ consider how to maximise the time she spends there. Well, not for more than a moment or two.) Then, too, the Professor had suggested she try to work through her... issues without Draughts (if possible) in the safety of chambers. She assumes he has a little experience with that, as an Occlumens. Working through things. 

That's not as true as she might think. Occlumency relies primarily on suppression. Compartmentalisation and suppression. Confronting one's troubles can be _helpful_ , but it's certainly not a _priority_. When attempts to do so become detrimental to Severus' ability to Occlude, mental health takes a back seat. He's right, obviously. There's precious little point to sorting his problems if it only means his death the next time he's summoned to face the Dark Lord. Severus suppresses quite a bit. When he's not outright repressing it, that is. 

Hermione spends a lot of time tossing and turning as if that would help her to escape her thoughts, or shake off the unpleasant ideas. All it does is give Crooks reason to give her a disgruntled 'mrowrrr'. He'd tried to curl up against her, but there's no point if she keeps changing position like that. He withdraws a little to take refuge in the comparative safety of the side of the bed closest to the wall, cleverly deciding to wait for her to quiet to resume his position. 

He knows his witch well. And he's no fool.  
  


Tonight's shaping up a lot like Sunday night had been, only worse. Far worse. In addition to everything else (and _that_ had been quite enough, really), she now has a much clearer idea of the threats the Professor faces (frankly, that by itself seems enough to guarantee she never sleeps again), the threat she may represent to him (the guilt alone...), an idea of how the school is going to react to their bonding in the weeks to come ( _so_ kindly), and - worse - how her friends are apparently planning on dealing with it. Which clearly wasn't well. 

She _really_ doesn't want to think about Harry and Ron. 

So naturally she does. 

There are some moments of embarrassment that she could ever have found anything... appealing about Ron. She's not even sure why she needs to think about it, but apparently she does. (And then has to wonder why on earth she suddenly juxtaposes that with thoughts of the Professor sleeping in only his pyjama bottoms on their couch, all apropos of nothing... There's some embarrassment there, too, but it's of a more... heated kind, leaving her cheeks quite flushed. An impressive response given the Calming Draught, for it's far from useless.) She spends a fair amount of time listing Ron's deficiencies; that list is lengthy, reflecting her hurt and anger (and it's also telling how much of both there is despite the Draught). For some reason, she also feels a need to berate herself for that former attraction. Self-recriminations seem to be an underlying theme for this night, though. 

Her recriminations aren't limited to herself, however. She's furious at both Harry and Ron, and despite all her self-reproaches, manages, conveniently, to overlook the things she may have done to contribute to their current conflict. Not that it's _her_ responsibility to make sure they're getting along, but neither is it entirely fair to expect them to read her mind. On the other hand, Neville and Luna hadn't any more facts than Harry and Ron had - fewer, even - and somehow they had responded... better. More _compassionately_. 

Although there's a strong possibility their distance lent them an objectivity that had helped...  
  


But on that note, she reminds herself that Luna had been absolutely lovely, and Neville, he'd been frightfully sweet, really, if a little obvious (and the thought makes her smile), trying to get her away from Harry and Ron after Herbology - well, mostly Ron - and giving her a tour of his project in the greenhouses. She's not sure why she keeps focusing on the boys and her disappointment instead of on those truly heartwarming displays of friendship. She suspects that's human nature, that she feels a loss more keenly, but it doesn't seem healthy...

Somewhat unhealthily, she decides not to think about that any more for the moment. But there's something to be said for parcelling a job out in manageable bits. Only that was a... _bit_ too much to chew on if she's hoping to get any sleep. 

Similarly, other absolutely impossible topics include the reality of the threat beyond the castle's walls, what that meant for the Professor, what that in turn might mean for her, the potential threats within the castle, and anything more concrete about _that_ with respect to Friday night, not that anything happened... 

She has a sense that if she persists in seeing the Professor as someone who saved her from something terrible, and she very much does, that it seems at odds with her insistence that nothing had happened, which it _hadn't_... She can't emphasise that enough. A little mental gymnastics, and she's able to put forward the excuse that nothing _had_ happened, discounting her fear and trauma entirely, but he'd saved her from anything that _might have come_. And then she shuts that train of thought down immediately. Firmly. ' _Too soon_ ', a soft voice allows in the back of her mind, and _that_ might have been the first concession that it was a thing she'll need to deal with. 

Some day. 

Not now. 

No, not now.  
  


She wonders about her reaction just a bit ago, when she was... kneeling beside the Professor and trying to work up the... courage? The _temerity_? The _unmitigated gall_? Probably _that_ on consideration. The gall to put the Salve on him. She doesn't know much about panic attacks. 

Her mum would know. 

_Would have known_. 

Hermione spends a moment trying hard not to miss her mum. Or feel guilty about what she'd done to her. Or wonder how many of her memories are left... Her mum had retained more general medical knowledge than her father had. Before the Obliviations anyway. 

Of course it may have helped that her mum's days as a student weren't quite as long gone as her father's. 

Yes, her mum would have known. But then, _that_ wouldn't have done Hermione any good, as she wouldn't have told her mum what happened to her (not that anything did), just as she hadn't told her about all the other things. There'd been so very many things, really. She's made rather a habit of keeping her own counsel. That may be putting too positive a spin on it. Of keeping things from _them_. That naturally had been half of the problem when the time came to send her parents into hiding; they had no real understanding of the situation. That lack of understanding had all but guaranteed they wouldn't simply go off on their own, forcing her hand... More or less.

Hermione never draws the parallel between that and the situation with Ron and Harry at the moment. Even the people who know her best require _some_ explanations. _Some_ points of reference. At least if she hopes for them to ever understand... Anything else is just blind faith. And that's possible, of course, there's no question about it - Luna and Neville were certainly proof - but it's not exactly blessed with _comprehension_. Hermione prefers to be understood. 

_So_ oddly, it doesn't happen all that often. 

Instead she lies there wondering if there's anything on panic attacks in the library, but sort of doubts it. The wizarding world isn't exactly good about mental health. (She thinks of the Janus Thickey Ward with a shudder. And then of Neville and his parents with some sadness.) Still, she resolves to check the library tomorrow. (Assuming she can still get through the door. Holy Cricket.) Anything else strikes her as too pessimistic. That also seems proactive, and she's pleased with the decision. The fact she's thinking about it, _planning_ for it, just _proves_ how undamaged she is from Friday.  
  


Doesn't it?  
  


In fact, she's _so_ unaffected by Friday (and eager not to think; probably _mostly_ that) that she reaches for her wand, lights the sconce by her bed, gets up and resumes Sunday night's game of Transfiguring her sleepwear. Tonight it's all the deepest green, however. Because she isn't really thinking 'bridal'. Not beyond Ron's 'Bride of Slytherin' comments, anyway. The colour choice may have everything to do with them, and those remarks may have bothered her more than she'd care to admit. (But then that's true of a great many things lately.) 

Well, Ron can get stuffed. 

It suits her, she's sure. 

Although possibly it also has a _little_ to do with the way the Professor looks at her whenever she wears her new green blouse. Not that she's eager to admit that, either, to herself or anyone else. Except as long as she's thinking about it (just a bit), actually, it's less the way he _looks_ at her than what she can _feel_ from him through their bond when he does. Which makes it a good deal more delicious, because it's sort of a secret. 

Sort of _their_ secret. 

There's something nice about that. About a shared secret. Those have a way of drawing people together...

She doesn't ask why that might be a good thing, wanting them to be drawn closer, finding the sentiment embarrassing. Given they're _bonded_ , _for life_, it's actually perfectly _sensible_ , and it's a damn good thing at least one of them is slightly inclined to act along those lines. But considering she isn't thinking about that, it does rather her call her motives into question. Sadly, she also doesn't consider that as it _isn't_ a secret freely shared but stolen from him, ripped from within, it's _very_ unlikely to unite them. As is, it rather leaves him feeling betrayed by their bond. Often. And Occluding. And suppressing...

And then she's trying ( _so_ hard) not to think about the fact they very much share the secret of what happened (or didn't) on Friday, because those are... Those _aren't_ restful thoughts. 

So she Transfigures some more. Practice makes perfect, after all. And she's a bit of a perfectionist, isn't she? (And if she keeps this up, she'll tire, won't she, and maybe get a good night's rest...)

She still has no success with changing the cloth's texture, which annoys her. On the other hand, it's not like she'd done anything to change that, now had she? She should probably speak to Professor McGonagall about that. Or ask Madam Pomfrey. She'd _meant_ to. Except she hadn't. Asked. She doesn't think about how her fear for the Professor last night had completely eclipsed that desire. (Not more than briefly, anyhow.) That's not restful either. 

(So many things aren't.) 

Fortunately, her top is incredibly soft - it's a terribly old shirt, she'd stolen it from her father (and she promptly doesn't think of _him_ , either) after he'd declared it too old for use, a veteran of so many washings it borders on magic it's held together this long - any changes to the texture would most likely be for the worse. But she does like the feel of it against her skin. 

Very much. 

The hemlines start high; it's more of a bodice, really. She recalls the Professor's reaction to her outfit yesterday morning with a broad smile (Transfigured knickers!), remembers how embarrassed he'd been and can't suppress a far too girlish (but thoroughly justified) giggle, and then lengthens her nightgown (enough that it might even _be_ a nightgown, anyway). She has nothing to prove here after all. And even if it _is_ more modest, she's hardly _afraid_ of being too risqué. Of course, that's easier said when there's no danger of anyone seeing it. And modesty may be in the eye of the beholder; when she's done, frankly the thing barley covers her arse. 

Crooks honestly doesn't care one way or another. 

It occupies her for a while, forcing her to concentrate on something else, and it's calming in a way she understands more instinctively than any of Professor Taylor's relaxation techniques, which helps explain why she chose it. It burns off some of her nervousness that she's loath to put a name to. But she can't keep it up all night. Finally she's satisfied with what she can do with the shapes. The limits probably lie with her understanding of material and how clothing is constructed or draped, and not with her Transfiguration skills. 

She's quite happy to have that be the issue. It slots nicely into her self image. 

Crooks has watched the fashion show with his usual aplomb, which is to say he slept through most of it. She gives a twirl to show him the final result, pleated, plunging V-shaped neckline, short capped sleeves, empire waist and the ability to flare as she turns which feels oddly... right. Somehow... pretty. Crookshanks merely lifts a single eyelid to observe. She decides to take that as a sign of approval (not that he could have known what she'd settled on before he opened that eye), more because she wants approval, possibly craves it, and less because there is anything at all in his demeanour as he sleepily lies there to suggest it. 

No, Crooks rather wishes she'd end this silliness and come to rest. Fatalistically, he's accepted that's not bleeding likely. He hardly stirs as she Noxes the sconce and hops back into the bed with him other than to nudge his head under her hand. It garners him a thorough ear-scratching and her a protracted purr, satisfying both. It's nice how that works. Symbiotically.  
  


Unfortunately, it's not long before her thoughts begin spinning again. It's difficult to think of nothing. Well, maybe not for Ron... Although she supposes even _Ron_ thinks about food. Or Quidditch. (Except she doesn't really want to think about Ron... And can't seem to stop her thoughts from going places that make her less happy. Certainly less sleepy.)

She'd prefer to think about something safe. And then she quickly tries to rephrase that, because she _isn't_ a fearful person (well, not overly), and why should she be worried about the _safety_ of _thoughts_? That's rubbish. Just... 

Rubbish. 

So she casts about and realises that she'd naturally prefer to think about something _useful_ instead. That seems more like... _her_. Absolutely. That's her to a 'T'. (But if it manages to be both, useful _and_ safe, obviously that's _preferable_ , the little voice adds again.)  
  


Which brings her to her malfunctioning Loyalty Vow. Because that seems the most crucial thing she should probably address in the near future. Not that she's sure she _can_ do anything to fix it, but it's quite clear it _needs_ fixing. Today had certainly given her a good idea why it might be _necessary_. 

And the Professor's little experiment had definitely done the rest. 

So what's wrong with her Vow? 

Almost _everything_ , it would seem. 

The only positive thing she can find in it now is the proof that the Professor had been correct, that the Vow wouldn't serve to curtail her usual behaviour. It _definitely_ hadn't done that. Unfortunately, it doesn't seem to curtail much of anything _else_ , either. Except telling the Headmaster about the Professor's sweet tooth, or his willingness to share afters. 

Somehow, that doesn't seem all that... effective. 

No, that will scarcely have been the point of the thing. 

Why, just today, she'd dragged Professor McGonagall to his bedside, in clear opposition to his... request that she share nothing about him with others. And he'd been _thrilled_ to hear how she had exchanged information about him with _Malfoy_. (Actually, the Professor took _that_ better than she would have expected, all considered. When he thought it through, it had almost seemed to soften his anger, and she finds herself sort of wondering _why_.) 

And she shouldn't have been able to update Luna on how he was doing. Or tell the Ravenclaws he'd been in the Infirmary, or, come to think of it, she'd said as much to Ron, too, when they... _spoke_ , and by extension Harry, who'd been listening to them argue, and the Professor's instructions had been very clear, reveal _nothing_ to _anyone_. Oh, and really, she'd informed Lavender and Parvati, too, hadn't she? In fact, now that she thinks about it, she'd even told the Baron about his condition... Which leaves her lying there now trying to think of _anyone_ in the castle she _hadn't_ spoken to about it. 

Possibly Madam Pince. 

But then they aren't exactly on chatting terms. 

Bloody hell.  
  


And now that she's had a chance to mull things over, and she's most definitely mulling up a storm here, shouldn't the Vow have kept him safe from... Well, she'd basically pawed him, hadn't she, rather thoroughly (she tends to be thorough; she prides herself on it), and she is absolutely convinced he wouldn't appreciate that in the least. He'd never have stood for it. (Of course, were he standing, it wouldn't have been an issue, now would it?) She stares at her glowing index finger as she contemplates it, rubbing it gently with her thumb.

A sort of uncomfortable feeling overcomes her as she realises she may well have had the right of it earlier, that the difference was her doubt or lack of it. She had been uncertain Sunday when she spoke, or failed to, to the Headmaster about the shared torte, and not _at all_ today. No, she'd been quite sure of herself today. She hadn't seen _any_ of her actions as disloyal as she did them, and the Vow hadn't been any sort of hindrance. Not in the least. And yet the value, or potential danger of the information revealed was coincidentally (she's sure it's that) in inverse proportion both to her doubt and the reaction of the Vow. That doesn't seem... good. 

It's certainly not _safe_. 

And it definitely calls into question the value of a system that relies on _her judgment_. That _can't_ be wise. Especially as she knows so little about what's taking place. 

She understands now, and begins to feel ill, why the Professor was trying to make her comprehend Sunday that she had to mistrust him. Why he'd suggested that perfectly horrible model based on constant distrust. He felt that was required in order to keep her permanently in a state where she'd be unable to do what she'd just done. And _she'd_ assured him it shouldn't be _necessary_. Or pleasant. Well, the second was probably the only thing she could say with any certainty. 

And the Headmaster had been very clear about the need for that Vow. She may be picking and choosing what to believe from him these days, but she'd believed _that_. Except he'd also claimed the Professor could use... _needed_ her support. Well, _support_ , not necessarily _hers_. But hers is the only support potentially on offer here (or at least that she's personally capable of arranging). If that's true, if he needs her to provide it and it's not just wishful thinking, hoping to somehow be of use, she doesn't see how she can support _and_ doubt him simultaneously. They seem to preclude one another. They're mutually exclusive. 

Well, she _doesn't_ doubt him. She really doesn't see how she _could_ with their bond. (Which isn't to say she doesn't call his judgment into question. Merlin knows, he's given her reason to. But then people in glass houses... No, they're in excellent company.) So the least she can do if that lack of doubt is going to completely bugger her Loyalty Vow would presumably be to see to it she supports him as best she can. So, um, not so much like when she argued with him and stormed from the room... That might have been suboptimal. Probably less of that, and something more constructive in turn...

She hasn't the foggiest notion what that's supposed to be.  
  


She lies there for a while trying to come up with something, and mostly failing, and when she doesn't concentrate, when she isn't keeping herself focused on that problem, all kinds of scary thoughts come creeping back in to plague her. What the Death Eaters had done to the Professor last night. That they'd probably done even worse to him Friday, judging by his wounds. That _that_ seems to be a regular thing... Or what happened to the Professor under the Whomping Willow as a boy, and how it must have felt knowing _exactly_ what was waiting for him and still facing it when he came to rescue them from Sirius _and_ Remus third year...

She tries to focus more on how brave he must be than on the dangers he faces, even though they're simply opposite sides of the same coin. But it may be easier to sleep if she can avoid thinking about those constant threats. She's not having much luck with it. 

She's pretty sure she isn't going to get any rest at this rate. She turns fitfully and plumps her pillow, trying to fluff it up some. Truthfully, it's the fluffiest pillow she's ever... she's not even sure she can say she owns it. The fluffiest pillow she's ever _had_ , then. She doubts any amount of plumping is going to help.  
  


Through her open door, she can hear _him_ growing more agitated. It's probably not surprising in light of how restive, how... anxious she is. It makes perfect sense, she supposes, that she can affect his sleep negatively. She'd been able to affect it positively before, hadn't she? That may still need to be tested more thoroughly to be more than just an assertion, but she's pretty sure it's true. And goes a ways to explaining his condition at the moment. 

Whatever else, this currently isn't working. For either of them. It calls for radical measures, she is sure.

* * *

  


His dreams have been a mess for days, which is funny (in a very non-amusing fashion), because he's serious when he thinks that, but the truth is they've been a mess for years. He's simply adjusted to them. He's coping. And if anything, they are _less_ of a mess _now_. 

That naturally strikes him as odd. 

He's had nightmares for much of the evening, which isn't surprising given his recent experiences. But right now he's having another one of those weird dreams, those strange goldilocks dreams, the sort of dreams he rarely has, at least in recent years. It's been long enough now that he barely thinks of what came before. For the most part, dreaming seems to serve to clear his mind of the things Occlumency suppresses, which means he tends towards nightmares. It's only logical. It's frightfully efficient, he is sure. It's just not particularly _pleasant_. But recently he's had a few actual _dreams_ , something _other_ than nightmares, and he can't begin to explain it. 

Which isn't to say he can't _appreciate_ it. He rather does. It's... _nice_ to have a break. 

And so he finds himself in the midst of yet another dream that seems to serve no purpose he can discern. How frivolous. He's back in that impossible wildflower field, gathering ingredients for potions. The planting makes no sense, not herbologically. The various plants want completely different conditions and wouldn't grow grouped as he's dreamt them. He may have thought a little too long about that for it to be strictly restful, but as he enjoys a puzzle - immensely (particularly those of a non-threatening nature, so few and far between), it hasn't done him any harm either. It's given him something to tick over in the back of his mind. He has a vague hope distractions will help him clear his mind enough to find the solution to his other problems, the Invincibility Potion first and foremost amongst them. 

_The leaves from lavender_...

_A bract of bee balm_...

For starters, the flowers in this field can't be combined to make any known potion. That would have been too obvious. And it would make no sense to seek to blend them for something experimental. Their applications and preparation methods are too disparate. This isn't his subconscious trying to suggest a new Potions solution. 

Nor do they seem to represent any floriographical message, Victorian, Gaelic, Turkish, Hebraic, Japanese or otherwise. Equally, he can think of no associated customs. Their colours, the spacing between their locations, the preferred planting conditions... None of it lends itself to a code, and that would be far too Muggle a way of thinking anyway in a world where magic sorts the need for cyphers quite nicely. 

He's begun to suspect the flowers serve no purpose beyond the decorative, or more precisely, given their appearances, none beyond their scent, their... _bouquet_. He really should have thought of that earlier. _He really_ should have. And people say he's all nose...

He's decided to simply savour the fragrances and his dream as it's altogether... agreeable. 

Naturally, it will annoy him - greatly - once he realises it's the combined result of Miss Granger's scent and the blanket she's dragged home. But that's a problem for later. 

So he stands there in the midst of the field gathering his plants. Everything comes easily. His back doesn't hurt, no matter how long he works, his trousers never become dirty or damp when he kneels on the ground, even his hands and nails remain improbably clean. Although obviously there were potions and Charms to sort any and all of that, the point was they weren't _required_. Any tool he wants is there to hand, the storage of his harvest proves no problem... In short, he's simply divertingly occupied. He's at peace. He finds it all very... comforting. It's strange. 

But he plans on enjoying every moment of it.  
  


That enjoyment seems under threat when Miss Granger puts in an appearance. While he rather wishes she wouldn't haunt his dreams as she's done of late (although it's presumably unavoidable given their bonding - or their damnable _bond_ ), even her company proves... unobjectionable in this dream. It probably helps that she's suitably attired. Her help certainly increases his productivity. (As does her kit.) And rather providentially, this time it appears it's _her_ turn not to speak. 

He's more than happy not to do so either, or perhaps at a loss for what to say, and for a while they gather the ingredients in oddly companionable silence. 

At some point, he couldn't explain why, he begins to tell her about the lesser known aspects of some of the plants, unusual qualities or means of preparation, he details long forgotten and newly discovered applications. Not once does she open her mouth to - ludicrously - try to prove how much more she knows than he does. ( _That in itself was proof enough it's a dream had her previous silence not been_ , he scoffs.) Instead she rewards his impromptu lecture with one of those beaming smiles she reserves for her feline, often for the simple act of _breathing_ , which leaves Severus feeling slightly insulted, until he decides he sort of likes the smile when he's on the receiving end. 

And really, his recital had deserved it. 

There's a brief moment when he fears his efforts will be punished by added inches on future assignments before he recalls with some relief that she's no longer in his class, and then he remembers _why_ and that relief dissipates immediately. For a moment he almost feels sorry for Pomona for the inches Miss Granger will no doubt add to her Herbology homework on the subject of any of these plants before he reminds himself it was all only a dream. And then wonders why he'd have gone to the bother of explaining things in view of that. He follows that by wondering why he'd have considered the effort more worthwhile were it _not_ a dream. That thought proves disturbing and he abandons it quickly. 

Still, by and large it's a relaxing exercise. It may have done him some good. He probably wouldn't mind repeating it. 

When the dream comes to its inevitable end and he begins to shift to the next, he's sorry to see it go. He'd appreciated the chance to recharge his batteries, as it were, and liked the bucolic idyll. And the next must surely be worse, or at least that's what the law of averages dictates. His dreams are rarely this good. 

As a result, he's all the more surprised by his next one.  
  


He wakes slowly, very slowly, which despite the dream's clarity is his first indication it's simply not real. He always wakes quickly, _completely_ , generally instantly aware of his surroundings, unless very much drugged. It's served him well when forced to kip in some corner, surrounded by Death Eaters. That's been an all too frequent occurrence over the years. (As has being thoroughly drugged, come to think of it... Poppy. Bless.) He'd developed that habit as a very young boy, however, trying to... _forced_ to better navigate his father's drunken... moods. It had been... safer to sleep lightly and wake... aware. But as it's a habit that's continued well on into adulthood, that detail by and of itself makes it highly probable that this is a dream. 

He notes he's safe in his chambers, sleeping on his couch; that much, once he gathers his thoughts, makes sense. He still has no idea _why_ he's sleeping there, but he remembers the Patronuses disturbing his sleep earlier. His face seems stuck to the dragon hide couch. He lifts his head slightly to pull his cheek clear, eliciting a sound much like fruit leather makes when peeled from a waxed paper backing, and contemplates worming his way back to the nearby throw pillow he's deserted, but he's just too tired. 

And too comfortable where he lies. 

He wriggles, ever so slightly, and discovers that his left arm appears a little stuck as well. Bother. He may have actually sighed. But he really can't be arsed to turn over. That says a lot for his exhaustion. Inexplicably, his side doesn't seem to be adhering to the couch at all; he wriggles again a little more pronouncedly to confirm that. No, it makes no sense, behaving as though Imperviused when his arm is clearly not, and he adds that to the list of proofs that this is a dream, the characteristics of skin are (naturally) simply not that variable under the same given conditions. What tosh. Fleetingly he's disappointed in his subconsciousness' grasp of the physical world. Fortunately no one need ever learn of his shame. 

There's the softest imaginable blanket covering him, especially perceptible over his bare upper body, and he's wondering again what he's doing without a top in winter (aside from better appreciating that blanket's softness; _Merlin_ , it's _good_ ), not that he's cold, but it's the principle of the thing. He may not have explanations for that - well, _firewhisky_ , ta muchly, it explains _so_ much - but he recollects those details from earlier as well. 

Chambers? Check. Couch? Check. Sans top? _Should_ be checked, but yes, check. Blanket? Well _that_ certainly ticks all the boxes. 

The blanket smells fucking lovely, frankly, and he's just beginning to realise it isn't only the scent of the blanket without making any noteworthy progress towards a resolution of _that_ little mystery... His brain doesn't seem to quite want to identify it, though. In fact, it seems incredibly eager _not_ to identify the scent, which annoys him. As it would annoy him _more_ to have actually _identified_ it, his brain decides he can simply thank him for that kindness later, accepting even as it thinks it that it will never come to pass. 

Bizarrely, he's content. He's never content. He can't remember _ever_ being content... 

He's still trying to sort that thought, not with much success, when he discerns a further proof of a dream state in his position: he's apparently been sleeping on his left side, which is unusual, although he imagines it would have been difficult for the side of his arm to be stuck to the leather as it is otherwise. Yet more proof he's waking too slowly for this to be real (or that he's suddenly been rendered unconscionably slow witted, which isn't how Confunding works, or much of anything else). Still, as sleeping positions go, he prefers sleeping on his back. Doubtless it will serve a narrative purpose. As no one is currently being tortured in his presence, he's quite happy to wait for that purpose to reveal itself, particularly as this dream is proving more of a doddle than the last, and when does that happen?

He doesn't have to wait long. 

Something moves underneath his right hand where he's allowed it to rest, hanging slightly off the couch. He doesn't flinch, he has too much experience (none of it _desirable_ , but all the more _applicable_ ) and self control for that, he waits to see what it is and assess the threat it represents. 

Once he recognises it however, he's at an utter loss how to make that threat assessment. He draws a total blank.  
  


For reasons even less explicable than his own - topless - presence in the lounge (although possibly it's not altogether _unrelated_ to it), _Miss Granger_ seems to have made herself at home on the floor in front of his... their couch, and his hand is currently resting upon her upper arm. 

Her bare upper arm. 

He takes a few moments to process that. 

They don't help. 

Not in the least. The absurdity of _that_ (and it's unclear if he finds her location or the physical contact more improbable; _neither_ was _likely_ ) further convinces him this is a dream, although he's beginning to wonder... 

Not having any desire to be forced to confront her - even if only in a dream state (most likely _especially_ then, his psyche is a _horror_ ) - for _any_ of this, he really can't imagine what his subconscious is trying to get at, he freezes, breathing as shallowly as he can, desperate to avoid disturbing her. 

It works, which isn't at all the way he defines his luck. 

_That_ fact begins to weigh against the dream scenario, because his subconscious very definitely has a grasp on _that_. 

He lies there blinking the sleep from his eyes, slowly becoming increasingly sure he is now indeed awake, assessing the situation, and finally acknowledges he's still very pleasurably squiffy. Probably much more than just squiffy, were he being honest. And he does very _definitely_ have a warm witch in hand. A soft witch in hand. His fingers flex slightly to test this - she's both warm _and_ soft, possibly more so than the blanket covering him, which he'd have thought unlikely - and she may just have sighed at the touch. He goes rigidly still once more. 

Cautiously he peers over the edge of the couch to see that she seems to have made herself a nest of her duvet and pillow and is snuggled against the furniture. 

He tries to find an explanation for it. 

He fails. 

It really doesn't make any sense to him. But as he's accepted this is real, equally he must accept that there's a reason for it. Even if it currently escapes him.  
  


It escapes him a while longer. 

He adds that to the reasons to imbibe less, but secretly assumes if sober he'd be even more stumped. He's presently willing to entertain explanations he most certainly _wouldn't_ were he less drunk. So he tries some more, racking his brains while holding incredibly still, and finally decides she felt she needed to keep an eye on him in his... inebriated state. 

He nearly snorts at that, because he's an arse. Had she been worried he might have had so much to drink as to sick up in the night, the woman has picked the single _worst_ spot to bed down, that much is clear. He assumes she hasn't much practical experience with these things, lucky her, and is operating based on some vague notion of the theoretical risks involved.  
  


Feeling comfortable with that explanation for their current sleeping arrangements, he now (somewhat unwisely) begins to examine his response to it. Typically (and he really should do something about that, but he never seems to find the time), once he realises he was feeling rather comfortable not just with the _explanation_ but with the _situation itself_ , he promptly begins to feel far less comfortable. But that's all too common for his own special brand of idiocy. Nit. 

He suspects he'd used his right hand to... he's not quite sure what he's doing, and really doesn't wish to describe it as 'holding her'. 'Touching her' strikes him as immeasurably worse - he is _not_ touching her, except that technically he is... (Vexatious verbs!) - and he soon flounders for words. They all prove unsatisfactory, which has far less to do with his vocabulary than his inhibitions. For a, how had Miss Granger phrased it? For a 'fearsome Death Eater', he has surprisingly many. 

For which the Order should be boundlessly grateful...

He imagines he'd have wished to keep the Dark Mark well away from her, which is why his left arm is under him, safely tucked back from his Muggle-born bondmate, and it's his right hand presently... lying - _innocuously_ , _most innocently_, in point of fact - on her arm. In a grasping fashion that probably can't be described as 'lying' unless he insists on lying to himself. 

And that he does, ta. 

It was probably also easier to... hold her this way, with his right hand, not that he can begin to explain why he should have wished to do so in the first place. _Sound asleep and not responsible for his actions_ and _firewhisky_ come immediately to mind. Fine, but that doesn't explain why he hasn't moved away _now_. 

He's reluctant to wake her is why. 

Well, he's certainly reluctant. 

Honestly, he's still too drunk to want to get up and move to his bedroom, drunk enough not to care overmuch, well, not _too_ much, and obviously the little witch chose to lie there of her own accord. That's hardly _his_ fault. _This_ situation was _not_ of _his_ making. 

Probably. 

Mostly. 

Beyond being drunk and apparently passing out half clothed in the lounge. Bygones. He sees no need to dwell on that. Well, not tonight. (Tomorrow will undoubtably be a different matter.) Having absolved himself of most of the blame, he settles in again, relaxing deeper into the couch.  
  


That lasts for a few minutes, he's just about to nod off once more, when he's startled to feel her left hand reach up to grab his right, intertwining their fingers and holding his hand, clasping it more tightly to her arm. (It transpires he's less shy about using the word 'holding' when it doesn't apply to _his_ actions.) He lies there - not sleeping - for a while longer, thinking about that as she tries to cuddle in closer to the couch beneath him, contemplating the warm creature lying there in his grasp. 

Truthfully, her touch is... pleasant. 

It feels like acceptance, in a way he hadn't even realised he wanted. Maybe even _needed_. It's... comfort. 

Something he hasn't had a great deal of. 

It's rather like those moments from Friday evening, not all the ones he'd rather forget (desperately _wishes_ to forget, but can't quite see his way clear to exposing himself to the inevitable ridicule by asking Albus for an Obliviate), but when she'd curled into his chest, trying to express her relief and gratitude, clearly displaying her trust in him, even after what those boys had done to her. That had meant a great deal to him. She hadn't shied from his touch, she'd _sought_ it, seen in him a source of comfort. Safety. 

It goes without saying that he isn't often cast in that light. 

And there was no embarrassment there.  
  


He is all too aware that she finds him humiliating. Merlin knows, their insufferable bond has been... _good enough_ to let him know that she's experienced such a surfeit of mortification since their bonding as to rob him of any illusions he may _ever_ have had. Not that there had been many, but _that_ rejection _had_ been rather... brutal. Were he a better man, he'd put an end to this now - she'll only regret it when she wakes - but he has to admit he kind of fancies it. 

So much so, that there's a moment where he half wants to expand the couch and pull her to him - just to hold, of course; he'd really prefer to get back to sleep - and this feels like the first good rest he's had outside the Infirmary where he was doubtlessly drugged to the hilt... Well, he's probably still proper gattered. But it doesn't matter how much he's had to drink, he wouldn't dream of pulling her up beside him. Never. It's a liberty too far. Particularly given her recent experiences. But she must have come there of her own volition, and he decides he probably doesn't need to have much problem leaving her there. 

He gently untangles their fingers and wandlessly casts a silent Cushioning Charm on the floor. He follows it with a Warming Charm, just to be sure. It shouldn't be necessary, between the self-heating properties he'd Charmed into her duvet when he'd made it and the semi-permanent Warming Charms on the floor, but better safe than sorry. And he naturally has no way of knowing Hermione cast both Charms when she decided to spend the night there beside him. He spreads half of his blanket over the little witch before returning his hand to her shoulder and is more than a little gratified (and drunk enough not to mind) when she greedily grabs for his fingers, and gives his arm a tug, trying to pull it snugly around her. 

He nearly chuckles. Merlin knows, his arms are long, but with the way she's trying to lever it around her body, she's more likely to pull him from the couch than anything else. That would most decidedly be a _rude_ awakening for them both. He definitely has no desire to test that assertion.

Apparently unwilling to relinquish his hold on the witch again, he now pulls his left hand free of the dragon hide and, succumbing to the sort of drunken logic he'll bitterly regret in the morning, with a twitch of his fingers unleashes a Sectumsempra on the couch, neatly severing all six legs and with a further flick flinging the stumps to the side. A masterful Wingardium Leviosa (a Firstie's Charm he's still rather bitter about flubbing last Friday), brings the couch down smoothly to the ground, with only a small detour, swinging slightly back and then bumping gently forwards to give the witch and her blanket a nudge to make sure he hasn't trapped her beneath the furniture in the process. He really shouldn't like to have to explain that otherwise. 

Hermione, now better able to reach him even if not particularly awake, takes full advantage of their new relative positions to wrap his arm tightly around her own (and herself while she's at it) and pull his hand under her head where she holds him fast, cupping her cheek. She smiles into his palm and falls more deeply asleep. _This_ is restful. There is nowhere she feels safer, which is slightly ironic as he might well have crushed her with the couch with the way their combined luck has been going lately. 

There's a moment as he's drifting off where he thinks uncomfortably about how he'll explain this, the now suddenly legless couch - roughly as legless as he was, as the expression goes - should she wake before him. He resolves to get up earlier, which might do some good were he less drunk. As it is...  
  


His thoughts finally alight on a solution. Should he _need_ to justify this, he can simply claim Sunny must have lowered the couch, which is funny in as much as Sunny most definitely _didn't_ do that, he wouldn't have _dared_ (from a human perspective, his compunctions are more than passing strange), but he _had_ moved Severus to the couch in the first place and divested him of his pyjama top in the process. 

Not that Severus will ever learn of these facts, but that doesn't make them any less so.

  



	86. 11 11z Tuesday - Definitely Dreaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Severus, Hermione 7G, Crooks, Sunny (the Snapes' house elf; lurking)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to **Grooot, LostAngelSoul and Goldenbassets**. I really, really, _really_ appreciate your support.  <3 And you can thank them for this being up now.

Once she'd had the idea, the decision itself hadn't been difficult. Naturally it had helped, non-trivially, that Hermione hadn't expected to have to justify it to anyone. How opportune. The Professor seemed down for the count, whatever the number (well, rational and within reason), and she assumed she'd be up before him and return to her room. Simple. Wasn't it?

She'd grabbed her pillow and blanket from the bed, drawing a meowed protest from Crooks at the loss of its purr-fectly lovely warmth - for Bast's sake, she was _really_ trying his patience tonight - and before she could reconsider, she'd stormed from her room in an excitable flurry of bedclothes. 

She had quickly cast a few Charms and made her improvised bed on the floor immediately in front of the Professor on the couch. As she settled in and finally began to relax, she couldn't help thinking she should have done this an hour earlier instead of tussling with her thoughts. With what she's beginning to suspect might be some inner demons... 

She had to wonder though, if this wasn't a sign of something still being... _off_ in her behaviour. She'd noticed it beginning this afternoon, and most definitely (now that she thought about it), in the Headmaster's office, a kind of... punchiness about her that she was reasonably sure - beyond the stress of the past several days - she had the Professor's drinking to thank for. Well, and the bond, obviously. His drinking would hardly have affected her otherwise. But there's a reason it's called liquid courage... While that left her a little less sure about camping beside him, on balance the feeling of safety it provided more than compensated for it. And being able to shift some of the blame for her decidedly discreditable defeat in taking yet another of the Headmaster's Oaths sweetened the pot. No doubt. 

She was positive she was better off where she was, thank you very much. 

That lasted until he turned in his sleep, which was met with a tiny flicker of panic on her part that he could wake. It was followed by a slightly larger flare of panic that he might step on her if he tried to get up, she's a practical person after all, and that seemed a highly likely course of events if he woke. Certainly if he rose. It made her realise she really didn't quite understand what she was doing here. 

But she _had_ slept better in the Infirmary. She'd felt _safer_ there. She felt that here as well. It was probably no coincidence the Professor had been beside her in both instances. She couldn't explain it, and she didn't _have_ to, damn it (except she sort of did), because especially in the Infirmary he obviously wasn't in any shape to have actually been any sort of real protection, that's just absurd. And yet, _here_ she felt... _safe_. 

She felt certain (and found that ridiculous, but still...), he wouldn't hurt her. Well, beyond _relatively_ and _absolutely_ , apparently. But even without the Protection Vow, he'd demonstrated the ability and far more importantly a _willingness_ to help her, to _protect_ her, and no matter _what_ he said, he felt far more like a shield than a threat. No, he really hadn't felt like a threat. (When she wasn't pawing him, anyway. And that might have been more of a threat to her sanity, all things considered. Either way, it was hardly _his_ fault.)  
  


When his hand came to rest on her arm, she worried again for a moment he would wake at the contact, and then thanked her lucky stars for the firewhisky he had drunk when he didn't. His touch was warm, and somehow... calming (and somehow just a little... _not_ ), and safe here in her new home, at her bondmate's side as she listened to his breathing become more even, she finally, _finally_ felt sleep begin to claim her.

* * *

  


Crooks, unconvinced this wasn't just more of his witch's restlessness, had curled back in on himself - albeit a mite testily - to wait her out. He didn't need to stay awake for that. But eventually, when she doesn't reappear, he rises, stretching first one front leg and then the opposing hindquarter, and goes looking. 

What he finds is completely unexpected. 

Crooks is a half-Kneazle. Which means he's _two hundred percent_ feline by his reckoning. (It transpires felines tend to have about as much formal maths training as the average student at Hogwarts, so he's hardly alone in this.) And any good feline ( _obviously_ ) prides him- (or her-) self on their unflappability. (Unless faced with their archenemies, cucumbers, but that's a feud that goes back millennia and a whole different matter...) He is naturally _preternaturally_ prepared for _anything_ life can throw at him. (It should go without saying that felines also have about as much formal training in English as they do in maths...) 

Even still, he wasn't expecting _this_. 

There was _his_ witch tucked tightly under the arm of their new (well, _newish_ ) wizard, and what on earth have they done to the _couch_?

He's quite sure it's different now. Why, just hours ago, Crooks had batted the firewhisky cork under the furniture (repeatedly, if he's being accurate; it's encouraged in his household), which is currently _very_ apparently not possible as the body of it is resting on the floor. 

Much as his witch is, for that matter. 

He's not sure which he finds more puzzling. 

How is he supposed to lurk under furniture to better hunt the house elf, say, as a for instance, if said furniture can't be hidden under? 

Really, it's not very considerate. 

Still giving that a good think (whatever else, he's capable of giving things very good thinks... well, when he's not being too impulsive, but he _is_ a feline, and _that's_ to be expected as well) he stalks over to his sleeping witch and curls up once more by her belly. Close enough for the occasional loving scratch, he likes those, but not where her hands tend to linger longest - pillowing her head or covering the scar on her chest - and he's very likely to be snagged in their clutching grasp. Crooks learns quickly (when he chooses), and felines aren't fools. The woman is a _clutcher_. Really, if _that_ was what she wanted, she should have gotten a _Crup_.

But then they aren't allowed at school. 

His ego is robust enough that he assumes she never regretted her choice. Insecurities are for humans. 

And some canines.  
  


But really, he thinks as he makes himself comfortable, he has to admit, he quite likes the floor of their new home. It's much improved over their old home, so pleasantly warm. All the more so now that there are a couple of Warming Charms on the den his witch has made them. Good witch. And he does rather like the blanket the wizard crafted. He's proving useful. Maybe keeping him won't be a bad thing. 

Napping in the chairs was actually _less_ warm than on the floor, but Crooks doesn't like to be relegated to the ground like that. 

Not that his witch seems to take issue with the floor if her current sleeping arrangements are anything to go by... 

Perhaps he needs to reevaluate that.

* * *

  


Severus dreams. His dreams are broken. That's not even a bad description for them really. For the most part, they're based on his experiences, bits and pieces of things he's seen, sometimes exactly as they took place, sometimes rearranged like some distasteful collage, a truly _wretched_ piece of work. He'd probably find that boring, having everything on permanent repeat like that, that's if it weren't primarily _horrifying_ , a seemingly never ending loop of terror. (That has a way of distracting - quite effectively, in fact - from their repetitive nature, although all told, the desensitisation has probably helped him. There's that.) But not even he's that blasé. By and large, the damn things _really_ aren't pleasant. 

Of course, that's more than partially his own fault, beyond just the damage he's done to them with his regular Occlumency. 

He's limited the things he allows himself to dream of. He can do that, it's well within his capabilities - well, unless he's unwell as this past weekend - and it only seems... wise. A sensible precaution. And his nature limits the selection even further. He's generally not much given to dreaming of things he'd _like_ to see or experience; much like he isn't accustomed to wishing. 

Life has seen to that. 

_His_ life.

And his own choices, to be fair. 

He had certainly had a hand in that. Probably less of one than he's inclined to think, but then the idea that someone, _anyone_ else had controlled his destiny in any substantial way isn't one he would find comforting. And he has little problem accepting the responsibility, the blame, for any of a _long_ list of things that have gone wrong, terribly, _dreadfully_ wrong in his vicinity. His well pronounced case of survivor's guilt would guarantee it even if he weren't already trained to expect the fault to be his. (He can thank his father for that, but his subsequent years at Hogwarts, both as a student and later at Albus'... side, definitely hadn't made it any better.)

That may not be entirely healthy, but Albus, the person best positioned to recognise that and do something about any of it, is unfortunately the one who has the most to gain by maintaining the status quo. Severus isn't likely to get much help on that front as long as that remains the case.  
  


One of the few... aspirational things he had been... prone to dreaming about, rather unsurprisingly, was sex. 

It's very revealing that Severus generally doesn't feel the need to interrupt his nightmares, but very much tends to call a quick halt to anything remotely carnal. He'd argue that there's no point in stopping the nightmares, as the next dream is bound to be as bad as the last. But that logic doesn't quite apply to his erotic dreams. 

No, he's currently not a great fan of letting anything of a sexual nature play out in his mind, certainly in no great detail, not since the return of You-Know-Who. In addition to the general effects on his libido, a decided nuisance at present, it simply provides a vulnerability to exploit. There's risk attached. It's bad enough having to Occlude to hide substantial portions of his life, thoughts and actions. To have to do so for his _dreams_ as well is needlessly courting disaster. Idiocy. Worst case, there are constellations in which it could put a third party in grave danger if the Dark Lord or his forces thought the object of such a dream, such a person could be used as leverage. For _either_ side. He sees no point in endangering anyone for the sake of... what, really? 

A _fantasy_? He would scoff. 

Those dreams, and it's not that he doesn't have them - frustratingly enough, he still does - but he cuts them terribly short, they occur as mere seconds of a story. Shards of dreams. There's no longer any preamble. His subconscious has adjusted to his censorship, they begin in medias res, an outtake of a scene and nothing more, manifesting like a collection of wizarding pornography or clippings of a blue movie, swept together and taken at random from a cutting room floor. Mercifully short, but often extremely... explicit in their content. Potentially compromising.  
  


His dreams have been a mess for days now. Nothing but chaotic turmoil, a complete change to what he's used to. Initially he'd blamed his physical condition. He's begun to suspect that the bond has something to do with that instead, but that doesn't help him explain why that self same bondmate haunted his dreams all weekend. If he thought about it at all, he'd realise the tenor of those dreams was very different, and he could give himself a pass, but he's so eager to avoid thinking about it, that it doesn't quite register. 

There are a fair number of memories from Friday that haunt him. Greatly.

* * *

  


_Hermione has her little donkey firmly in hand - well, arm - right where he belongs._

_She probably should have him there more often, she feels better when she does, but something about Lav and Fay had instantly reminded her of Sheila Boese from Hermione's Muggle school who had teased her for her stuffed toy so relentlessly that Hermione instinctively hadn't wished to unpack him once she'd met her new roommates at Hogwarts. And by the time she'd learnt the Disillusionment Charm that might have helped with that, she'd broken herself of the habit of sleeping with him._

_Perhaps she should revisit that. Holding him feels... nice. Pleasant._ Safe. 

_She cuddles him to her, planting another soft kiss on his head, and feeling no desire to ever get up and face the day again._

* * *

  


Severus dreams. That's not usually a good thing, but this time, _this_ time it's a nice dream. One of the (oddly, yet steadily) growing handful of goldilocks dreams he's been having of late, the tolerable, the sometimes inexplicably... _agreeable_ ones, sufficiently innocent, somehow managing not to push any of his limits, crossing boundaries that would force him to call an early end to the story. He does that a lot. But this proves to be one of the few dreams that doesn't serve him up slices of conserved, previously experienced horrors, instead favouring flights of fancy, the _imagined_ , and providing a respite. A very... welcome respite.

He could use it. 

It's sad, but true: he hasn't any source material left to draw from in the real for pleasant dreams. What little there had been, and it's depressing how little that was, is now all hopelessly tainted. He pretends not to mind. 

Still, the dream had started real enough, which was again cause for some confusion at the outset as to whether or not he was awake.

In _this_ dream, he's waking slowly once more, normally a sure sign it's a dream, except for earlier, obviously, (which isn't helping to clarify things) but then that was presumably the alcohol if he's seeking explanations. As the question and answer are both unavoidable and safe - but mostly because they're _safe_ \- he does so. Comfortably, for once. And the simplest explanation for his dream, he decides, is that his subconscious has opted to incorporate elements from earlier into it. It seems... reasonable. 

Initially he's having a little trouble sorting things in his mind, taking in his surroundings. That makes perfect sense, though. He's exhausted. And still drunk. Cheers. 

It takes some moments for things to filter through. He thinks there's a tingling in his palm, the ghost of a touch, a vestigial warmth that leaves him with the impression that _that's_ why he's supposed to be waking in this dream. That it's the impetus for the scene about to unfold. 

It's as good as any other. Probably better than most. He hasn't identified it yet, but the feeling is not unwelcome. He doesn't know why, but he is certain the cause wasn't a threat, which is just another sign it's a dream, that certainty of his. The absence of a threat, however, isn't an accurate indicator one way or another; although on consideration, his dreams are probably more threatening than his waking reality, which is saying something. 

He's sleeping mostly on his stomach, which is strange, and yet there's a tickling sensation against his chest. And nose, for that matter. It's unusual, as he isn't particularly. Ticklish. That fact is probably what makes the sensation bearable, all the more... pleasant. Because it is. Pleasant. It fails, thoroughly, to annoy. So he lies there enjoying it for a few moments longer before further awareness sinks in, unfortunately rendering more of that simple appreciation impossible. 

He's distracted enough that his enjoyment isn't retroactively ruined, however. 

In his search for explanations, he realises first that the reason he can still feel anything at all (beyond dragon hide) against his chest, despite the unaccustomed position, is that his torso appears to be cantilevered half off the couch. Which is an absurd position to sleep in. In fact, it's an absurd position full stop. 

More absurdly, he recognises that he's apparently... hovering above Miss Granger, and then he makes sense of the couch's truncated state and that slots... somewhat into place. Yes, he has a corresponding memory for her and... that. Oh, for fuck's sake. Not that either explains his... hovering. At least he hopes not. 

Further, he soon identifies the source of that... sensation on his chest (and evidently ubiquitous nose) as Miss Granger's hair, whispering softly over his skin, sparking something not altogether unenjoyable in him in response, at least as purely physical reactions go. The intellectual and emotional ones are altogether different matters, all the more so as he can feel his skin pricking in reply. 

Dimly he recalls that the witch had apparently chosen to keep watch over him as he slept - and snorts a little ungenerously (and erroneously) at the thought she believes she's doing so while sound asleep - back bivouacking at his bed... _couch_ side. _Again_. As she does. In fact, she's done that so much lately, it would seem she's made something of a habit of it. 

With some resignation, he allows that the gesture is... nice. 

Well, this is presumably what he gets for not moving his sorry, benighted arse into his _own_ blighted bed and sleeping in his... their lounge instead. He could hardly have any expectations of privacy here. 

Not anymore. 

He's glad his subconscious saw fit to keep that blanket from earlier. The thing is a bloody marvel. It would be a pity to have lost it. 

His arm is still tucked - quite snugly now, it would seem - around the little witch, and that realisation might have been the point he'd have called a halt to the dream, better safe than sorry, except he also remembers her tucking it around herself earlier. It's a good deal easier to accept when he can abdicate the responsibility, when he needn't fear his subconscious has anything up its sleeve. 

Which is when he registers his own lack of sleeves (and top, for that matter) yet again. Right. Really? He _still_ can't imagine what he'd been thinking. He's a fastidious person and also can't seem to let it go; it's just not like him. Because he _insists_ on revisiting that again - which is silly, he'd gotten nowhere doing so before, and then he'd had the decided advantage of being awake - his question is immediately answered with: ' _he hadn't_ ' and followed almost routinely now by what today seems to be the answer to _everything_ (except the damnable Invincibility Potion): ' _firewhisky_ ' and just like that he ceases his fretting. 

(Although he mentally tests it to be sure, _a finger of firewhisky_...) 

The familiarity, the routine, of both the questions and the testing, helps further defuse his anxiety over the situation. It's a technique he'd employed often while learning Occlumency to help calm his mind; it works even when the application isn't deliberate. Which is just as well, because the absence of his top explains why he can feel the downy softness of her arms pressing against his, and again he finds himself comparing them to the blanket, only he's currently thinking he really shouldn't. Before it was an observation, now he might just be dwelling on it. 

But, Merlin, she's incredibly soft as well. 

So far his dream echoes what he remembers of reality well enough, although his grip on the witch is perhaps a bit... firmer than he recalls. And surely she seems even softer now, doesn't she? And then, because the details seem real enough and yet it's not tormenting him for a change, he wonders, briefly, if it's possible he's woken again after all. 

Miss Granger, ever so solicitously, almost as though reading his thoughts - but then she's only a projection, so that makes perfect sense - settles that for him, most definitively, as she nuzzles the hand she's clasping to her cheek. 

He lies there, shocked, trying to reconcile the action with the witch who performed it, if only in his mind, and then puzzling over her motives. He can't imagine what she thinks she's doing. (For once, 'firewhisky' _isn't_ the answer.) Or perhaps that should be what _he_ thinks she thinks she's doing, as long as he's the author of the piece (and then maybe 'firewhisky' explains everything after all...). And then he tries not to think of how she'd gravitated towards his hands, chasing his fingers under the influence of the Potion Friday night, because that's something he most assuredly _won't_ permit himself to dream about. Ever. 

Or at least not for more than seconds at a time...

But he probably can't help those. 

She shocks him further, cementing the association with her Potion driven affections when she turns her face to kiss his palm next. 

Well then. 

_Dream_. 

Clearly. 

Probably one he should end...  
  


Inexplicably, he doesn't. 

Briefly he's confused. Even thinking about ending a dream usually suffices, but here he still is. Waking on his couch, soft witch in arm. Perhaps he hadn't thought about ending it stridently enough. 

He contemplates remedying that. 

Bafflingly, she kisses his palm again, the feel of it triggers his recollection this time and he realises that that was how the dream had started as well, he recognises the sensation. The warmth, _her_ warmth, against his hand... He freezes, eager not to wake the witch and have to address this. He'd worried about just such a dream earlier. It seems his subconscious is eager to explore that nightmare scenario. 

It figures. 

But he considers for a moment, almost nostalgically, if that might not be nice, to just have a 'normal' nightmare for once, of the sort he'd had as a boy, him standing in front of the entire Transfiguration class, inexplicably full of Gryffindors, in his worn grey pants, or maybe naked as the day he was born, without the required number of inches on... Whatever was demanded of them. Somehow he suspects he'd rather face that spectre of Minerva than Miss Granger.

When she doesn't speak, he believes she's still fast asleep (Which makes her kisses... What? Parasomnia? _Somnibasiation_? It will do for lack of a term. Latin is invariably the answer when firewhisky isn't. _Lines of Latin..._ ), he lifts his elbow, shifting his arm away from her torso, lightening his hold, and tries to gently extricate his hand from her grasp, forcing himself to relinquish the softness of her cheek. He's weighing what to do as he attempts it, it's proving surprisingly tricky to work his fingers free, and still seriously considering ending this dream, just to be... safe, when the witch takes him by surprise once more as she addresses him, her voice a sleepy purr, "Don't let go."

Ah. Somniloquy now. Words fail him, even if his vocabulary doesn't. Because for the purposes of this dream, he's not certain she's awake. Not in the least. He honestly can't imagine her _wanting_ him to continue holding her, and even if she _did_ (patently absurd, but for the sake of argument), he rather assumes he has the little thing sufficiently cowed (and in retro- and on introspect that may have some downsides) that she'd never, _never_ dream of opening her mouth to say as much. (Apparently unlike himself.)

If that _isn't_ the case, he's clearly failed somewhere along the line in his targeted campaign against most of the student body. 

And then he tries hard not to think of his arm wrapped around a student's body. That way lies... Miss Granger. Evidently. 

He arrests his movements once more, leaving his hand in hers, where it's pressed now more against her lips than her cheek, not wishing to wake her and have her discover them like this. Very much so. He's still not trusting his psyche not to make something torturous of this. 

The silence stretches, and he's beginning to think he imagined her speaking, or possibly taking it as confirmation that she really was just talking in her sleep, he's still divided, and eventually he feels he should probably start breathing again. It's generally a good idea. It’s definitely served him well so far. 

But when he does, he finally responds. 

Just in case. 

"I wasn't going to," he asserts, not at all sure it's true, but softly enough that's she's not likely to hear him even if she were awake. 

Her huff of amusement would seem to indicate she's not as asleep as he had hoped. "Liar." 

Hmm. Perhaps not cowed enough. 

"Go back to sleep, witch," he tells her, slightly amused as well (and he _clearly_ has the firewhisky to thank for _that_ , too... or maybe it's their bond), and oddly still not relinquishing his hold on her. 

"Bossy," she laughs at him softly. 

Perhaps not cowed at all. His dread eyebrow of reproach lifts reflexively. 

"Cauldron meet kettle," he replies evenly, half enjoying the teasing. It's certainly preferable to the rebuke he'd been expecting from his subconscious instead. 

She just leads his hand back up to her cheek, undoing all his work to free it, nudging it softly into position with her nose, and nuzzling the heel of his palm once satisfied. That could have been coincidence. But when her lips ghost against it, he's not sure he's breathing anymore as he tries to discern their movement against him, half waiting for a traitorous contraction of those muscles that might indicate some significance to the action and cause him to take flight. 

It seems it's a whole different matter when he dreams she's awake. 

Instead, and to his great relief, he can feel her smile against him, he swears she sighs, her breath tickling across his wrist, which finally reminds him to breathe, and then with a faint hum of contentment, she shifts his hand to her shoulder and again clamps his arm to her body, tightening his hold. He really has far fewer problems with that when she's the one to do it. Her shoulder shifts up, her head burrows down in her pillow, gently trapping his hand between them, and she snuggles the back of his hand and wrist as she does so. 

It's the strangest thing, but it feels like... 

Comfort. 

She doesn't flinch from his touch. (Clearly. Merlin, she's _seeking_ it.) And as long as she doesn't flinch, he obviously can't be the monster he knows he is. Which is stupid, he senses it as he thinks it. It's just a sleepy - or possibly drunk - error in his thinking. All it means is he has her properly fooled. He has almost _everyone_ properly fooled. Why would the little witch be any different?

Except this is clearly _very_ different.  
  


Belatedly, his subconscious seems to have remembered their bond, and he finds himself apparently now adding that detail to the dream as he listens to it. 

She doesn't just _sound_ content, she _is_ content. He feels it. 

He's not sure what to make of it. 

He worries it like he'd worried his loose milk teeth as a child ( _deciduous dentition..._ ), testing it from all sides. 

There's a feeling of safety, probably more hers than his, that has him slowly deciding that the dream, too, is safe enough. He wonders if that's another logical flaw, _determining_ safety based on an illusory _perception_ of safety and concludes he can't make that decision while fast asleep. He defers it till morning, when he'll naturally avoid it like the plague, in favour of nursing his hangover, no doubt. 

However, the fact _she_ feels safe in his company, in his grasp, after what she's been through recently (and he knows, he _knows_ this is all in his own mind, but _still_ )... It's a source of great comfort to him. 

He finds himself relaxing. Enough so that he's beginning to suspect he might be content as well. He's nearly pleased he seems to have embraced that possibility from earlier. Contentment. If his subconscious insists on absorbing every last bit of shite it comes across, it's nice to think it can do so with the few positive things it encounters as well. That seems only fair, especially given the disparity in prevalence. (Technically, _given_ the disparity, it still wouldn't be _fair_...)

But he's a cautious man, and there are undercurrents to test for, to guard against. He listens to the 'bond' some more. This, he has resolved, is the clearest indicator of what his psyche has planned for him. His relief is measurable when he senses nothing... questionable. The interaction seems... harmless, _innocent_ (words he's rarely needed, but strangely more so of late), not that he'd deem their actions so were he awake, but then dreams aren't to be taken literally. 

He relaxes further, willing to let it run its course, at least if it keeps to the present one. And so they lie there for a while, with her holding his arm to her, and him in turn holding her as she nods off again. There's something soothing about watching her hair move as he breathes. There's something very... intimate about it, not that he's comfortable with the term, but the _fact_ of it is precisely what he finds comforting. He's well within her personal space, and she remains unflinching. 

Although it probably helps that she's mostly asleep.  
  


This isn't something... He has no idea why he's dreaming it - he suspects an underlying need for acceptance he plans to flagellate himself for come tomorrow - but this is something far outside of his range of experience. So much so, that he wonders why he chose it. Or possibly 'how'. Perhaps he's attached significance to the action by observation. 

He has to think about it. 

Conveniently, this proves an excellent position for doing so. 

There's something calming about it. And, yes, it was pleasant enough, too. It gives him a little extra buffer to think about things he'd normally find too precarious, potentially _needlessly_ self destructive. (Not that that normally stops him, but with certain topics, he immediately pumps the good old fashioned Muggle breaks. Hard.)  
  


He's used to sex. 

There's a flare of discomfort for thinking about it with this witch in arm, before he dismisses it. He's _not_ thinking about _that_ , but he can't think about _this_ without referencing what he knows.

He tries again. 

He's used to sex, fucking. Well, _some_ sex, _some_ fucking. 'Used to' makes it sound like it had been such a regular thing. 

It hadn't. (He'd snort at the thought, the memories, if he weren't still just so _angry_ with Albus for this... solution.) Merlin knows, his job and living arrangements hadn't helped matters any. And naturally spying for Albus had done for the rest. 

But it's not that opportunities for sex had been _impossible_ to come by, that wasn't the issue. It had simply been more... _difficult_ to arrange outside of a... relationship. 

And he's never had one. 

It just... it had never happened. 

He finds no shame in that. _It's_ a shame, obviously, more's the pity, he is sure, but there's no shame attached to _him_. He's fairly convinced. Not that he'd wish to have it put about much, but there it is. 

So he has sex. _Had_. Had sex. _Some_ sex. And some fucking.  
  


What he hasn't had is affection.  
  


And this may have been the first time someone has just kissed his palm. Not that he's clear on the purpose of such a thing...

Which isn’t to say it’s... disagreeable. At least not... objectively. 

And besides Friday when he carried this very same witch to the Infirmary... When has anyone just cuddled themselves into his hold?  
  


Those thoughts leave him struggling. That's not helped by the fact he can still see her face before him from Friday, although he remains convinced the Potion was the cause. Not that he can explain how it led to that expression of... He doesn't wish to label it. Looking back, he's not sure he was in good enough shape to remember it properly. To interpret it correctly. He has no idea _what_ she was experiencing. Any label he assigns says more about him than her, he is sure. 

He immediately discounts the kiss to his palm, at least, considering she had been asleep, and none of this matters if it's all just a dream, does it? But _why_ is he dreaming about it? And doesn't _that_ say something about him, too?  
  


There's a tiny burst of annoyance on his part, he's growing impatient with... this. 

Tired. 

Nightmares, he decides, are more efficient; certainly simpler. He knows what to do with them. This, _this_ is taking altogether too much thought. He needs to make up his mind and get over it. Get on with it. 

A small voice questions why he'd rather move to a nightmare than simply giving this some thought. He resents the implications. He's not a glutton for punishment (some might argue that, himself included when the occasion suits), but there's comfort in familiarity, he'll allow, and _this_ is... not. Not in the least. And then he balks at the whispered accusation of cowardice. He hasn't run, after all. 

Not yet, anyway. 

_She_ doesn't mean anything by it. He feels sure of that, but then it's been established he's far from expert. His range of experience is too narrow for this purpose. But having assured himself that there's nothing to it, or rather, that his subconscious projection of the witch for the purpose of this dream alone (and isn't that a complicated construct?) has no intentions towards him, untoward or otherwise, he finally gives in to the dream enough to see where it takes him. 

At least for the moment.  
  


Absently, as his thoughts drift, his fingers have begun tracing tracing lazy eights on her left shoulder. It's almost an unconscious action, he's largely unaware of it until his thumb dips just a little lower along her clavicle on one pass and he briefly fingers a scar there. He thinks nothing of it; he's riddled with scars and takes no notice. But there's a sudden blaze of discomfort through their bond that he has no desire to have caused, and he immediately moves to pull his hand away, suddenly all too aware of what he'd been doing. 

This has clearly gone too far. 

But as he moves, her left hand closes on his lower arm. She's not quite of the same opinion, and her grip is surprisingly strong. "Don't stop," she tells him in soft complaint and returns his hand, tenderly, but surely, only lower this time on her upper arm, safely away from the scar. 

 _Fine, if that's what she wants_ , he somewhat tentatively transitions to stroking her bare upper arm, trailing his fingertips lightly across her, at which point that discomfort immediately recedes and seems replaced by... 

She's _enjoying_ the sensation. 

Rather a lot. 

It's the strangest thing. 

He's not ticklish. Well, not especially. There are matching spots on his lower abdomen, parallel dimples just to the inside of each hip bone that are actually quite ticklish, but no one seems to have discovered that particularly. Not so they'd recall, anyway. They weren't those kinds of encounters. It says enough about his dreams the other night that he'd considered how her hair might be likely to tickle - excruciatingly - under the right, no, the _wrong_ , the _absolutely_ _wrong_ circumstances. Those were always the dreams he stopped as soon as possible, fleeing from them like he wouldn't from his nightmares. Like he _hadn't_ from his nightmares, until the little witch started dragging him from them. But he is rather remarkably unticklish in general and yet as he traces his fingertips up and down her arm, he feels like he's being tickled. 

But not. 

It's the pleasant flip side of the pain the the bond can transmit. Like the pain that doesn't hurt, it's the touch that doesn't tickle. It's nowhere as severe, obviously. _She_ lies there, struggling not to laugh; the sensation doesn't draw more than a smirk from him. Or maybe _that_ was in response to the witch trying her utmost not to wriggle beside him. She's biting that lip of hers as he adjusts his touch slightly, prolonging things until she really can't take any more and seriously considers begging, and then he shows mercy, flattening his hand and rubbing her arm until the sensation subsides. 

It leaves her a little breathless, and him strangely satisfied with that result. 

Perversely, because the realisation will give him no peace, he finds he rather likes the sound. 

His hand comes to rest at the top of her arm, just under her loose sleeve, and without thinking, he tightens his grip and pulls her closer to him. 

"Is that what you had in mind?" He asks, his voice low and she can feel his chest rumbling against her. 

"Even better," she sighs, happy.

"You _liked_ that?" Frankly he could _feel_ that she did, but he's having some trouble accepting that. She can hear the disbelief, feels its shadow across their bond, and shakes her head in reply. 

"As if you couldn't tell." And sure enough, there's her amusement again. She's too tired, too comfortable, too bloody content to be embarrassed. She'll save that for the morning. It's just honest. It's also half purred, and he has the sensation of cuddling a kitten to his chest. A kitten wrapped in a cobra's coils. He worries if that's a remotely safe spot for her, fairly certain it isn't, and she catches a hint of it in his feelings across the bond and seeks to put a stop to it. "Stop thinking and go to sleep." 

Bossy little thing. 

Bossy little thing, who surprises him once more when she brings her nose to his wrist and begins nuzzling it. Without releasing her shoulder - if anything, his hold tightens again - he finds himself reflexively lifting his arm towards her so she can better reach it. That response was immediate, which strikes him as odd as inasmuch as just a moment ago, he’d had no desire whatsoever to loosen the press of his arm against her. Ever. She's kind enough not to laugh at that; he's sober enough now to appreciate it. She takes full advantage of the improved access and lightly drags the tip of her nose once up and then back down the side of his lower arm.

It's literally hair-raising. 

That effect isn't limited to his arm either. He can feel the fine hairs at the base of his neck shifting. 

He lies there, clutching the little witch with his elbow suspended in midair, apparently eager to feel just a little more. It's a silly pose, crying of want. Need. Hope. Fortunately she doesn't give him time to consider it. 

She shifts her head up a little so that she's running her lips along the same trail, her nose now hovering just above his arm, inhaling his scent deeply. She exhales, the warmth of her breath making him question if he is perhaps just a little bit ticklish after all and making his skin slightly clammy so that her inhale flashes all the cooler against his skin. Her lips part as they continue along their path, the lower lip catching, stuttering across his skin from time to time, and now it's his turn to breathe unevenly. 

A couple of times he thinks he can just feel her teeth grazing against the sensitive flesh of his inner arm, and in his dreams, the dreams that have him hurrying to the next, fleeing from the content, _that_ touch of her teeth might turn to a nip, a bite, or yield way to a long lick across his skin... Any of a growing number of things that would send him running. 

This time, just this once, she stays on the right side of that line and he doesn't have to run from the dream but lets it play out. 

She senses his tension and relents, at least a little. Cupping his hand again to her cheek and pressing a soft kiss to his palm once more as she wraps her fingers around and through his. His arm returns automatically now to clutching her to him as he gets his breathing back under control. 

He lies there at a complete loss for a moment before he decides he needn't be. That's the clear advantage to dreams. He doesn't have to justify them. 

Usually. 

"Try to get some sleep," she commands. _She'd_ consider it a recommendation, and not be entirely right, but he's perhaps a bit oversensitive that way as well. 

"Bossy," it's his turn to answer her, but he does so with a slight smirk, ultimately highly confused by the casual affection and his pleasure in response to the feel of it.   
  


He might have left it at that, and they'd both have fallen asleep, and that would have been the end of it. Except then her duvet lifts smoothly off the floor, seemingly on the receiving end of a Wingardium Leviosa, and soon the witch is floating at roughly the same height as the now rather impulsively lowered couch. 

Each of them, quite reasonably, takes that for something it isn't, assuming the other had performed the Charm. Severus would never have pulled her onto the couch. It's a whole different matter when she practically joins him. Hermione would never have dreamt of doing so, but if he's willing to have her there, honestly, there's nowhere she'd rather be just now, and she may just have nestled in even closer. 

Of course, this would also be another matter altogether if Severus weren't both drunk and so thoroughly certain none of this is real, but it's not, it's simply a mental exercise. He can do those in his sleep. And apparently is. Convenient that. 

For his part, Crooks leaps from the gravity defying blanket with a discontented 'mrooowr', not quite trusting to the elven magic to keep them safely suspended. He retreats to Hermione's chair and somewhat reprovingly makes himself at home there, not that either of the humans pay his disgruntled rumblings any heed. He'll never understand how humans can so blithely rely on a house elf, of all creatures. If Hermione comes crashing down in the night, Crooks wouldn't be in the least surprised. She should know better. Still, she's a grown witch; it's up to her. And experience shows, he's not very likely to get his point across to the woman no matter how hard he tries. 

Ultimately he's got a good heart and really can't be held accountable if his - vastly superior - capacity for reasoning makes him occasionally disdainful, it simply can't be helped, and so he lies there concentrating on kippers, and tries to think more generous thoughts about his witch. It takes some effort, but he's up to the task. After all, she means well and can't help her limitations - she's only human. And she gives him fish, and foods and scritches, and generally recognises his worth, unlike most of her species. Clever girl. Steadily keeping that in the forefront of his mind, he narrows his eyes again, the feline equivalent to a head shaking, and begins to drift off once more, quietly sure the inevitable crash will wake him. 

That can't be helped either.   
  


The skin on Severus' arm, at the nape of his neck, it's still prickling, and he's always been a bit of a competitive arse. Were he thinking, he might acknowledge he'd only just tickled the witch to near distraction. They should be even. He might even be ahead. But somehow he's finding it a little... hard to think clearly. 

It's his turn now, as he sees it, and he ducks his head to hers. If she's decided to make this a battle of noses, of all things - she really is too absurd - _he_ should clearly win. By at least a nose, no doubt. 

Were he thinking, he might recognise that this is _exactly_ the sort of a competition he shouldn't be participating in, and certainly not with this particular witch. But he _isn't_ thinking and they _haven't_ crossed any of his boundaries - it had never occurred to him to blacklist any of... _this_ \- and somehow it sneaks in just under the radar. 

He breathes her in, he can't help it, that nose of his won't be denied. She's not just every bit as soft as the bloody blanket covering them both, she smells as good as well. (The latter might not be quite the coincidence he takes it for.) With a care most wouldn't expect from him (unless they were to consider how he handles any given step of the potions making process) and certainly not of his nose (in view of its dimensions), he very deliberately but gently nuzzles her wild mane of hair out of his way, granting him access to her ear. 

Hermione doesn't have to be asked, not that he was going to, she shifts her head, angling to make it easier for him to reach. His breath on her ear already tickles like mad, and she's back to biting her lip, but she's not running from this either. Quite the contrary. 

It's his turn now, and he trails the tip of his nose along the shell of her ear, his payback for the teeth on his arm. Her whimpered response goes under his skin. His answering huff of laughter would normally have made her withdraw, she thinks she'd never be secure or trusting enough for that, but there's only amusement to be felt across the bond, and it... sustains her. 

She listens to it and finds no mockery, only... pleasure. 

There's a hitch of her breath in reply that spurs him on and next he's running his mouth, those _lips_ along the same path, applying just enough pressure to allow his lower lip to catch as hers had on his arm. The soft mewling sound she makes in response goes straight to his bollocks and he can feel his cock twitch in reply. 

Uncharacteristically, he's not even uncomfortable with the reaction. 

He's only human. 

He'd have to be _dead_ not to respond. 

On some level he consoles himself with the knowledge: it's only a dream. And really, they've done nothing _wrong_. He finds it unlikely she's even capable of such a sound and thoroughly improbable _if_ she were that _he_ could ever elicit it from her. 

It wasn't simply a physical response. 

It's out of the question. 

But still he stops the trail of his mouth against her, and then holding her more tightly to him, allows his lower lip to roll back, just enough until she can feel the hint of moisture from the inside of the lip and it has more intimacy than their sole shared kiss, coupled with the erotic touch of being the precursor to a nip and her mewl _stretches_ becoming a soft keening as she pushes back, pressing further into him, and seeks more, turning her ear towards him unabashedly on the hunt for more, more of the same, and in a perfect world, still more yet.   
  


Sadly, her world isn't perfect. 

He removes his lips to the comparative safety of her hair, nuzzling her and inhaling deeply, and - eventually - her breathing stills to match his. 

At some point in the process, the back of her nightgown seems to have all but disappeared, and he can feel large swathes of her blanket soft skin pressed to him. The delicate tie across her back apparently holding the thing together makes it appear all the more fragile, and her skin seems to burn against him, searing into his chest. 

Their balance is as fragile as that tie, and he has no wish to risk it.   
  


The cunning little minx has coaxed far more from him than he'd ever allowed in any of his other dreams; he'd always put an end to them long before. Of course the descent had been correspondingly more gradual, but he's now far past his comfort zone. But then that had been the key, hadn't it? That he was never pushed too far at once, and first and foremost what he'd felt had been just that... comfort. 

It's absurd, too, to say the _minx_ had done this, when he knows only too well his subconscious had simply finally hit on the formula for success. Ultimately that feeling of comfort had been his undoing. And inarguably it's all made worse, far worse, because he can't forget the look on her face from Friday night, he incautiously names it now, the _longing_... 

Nor can he forget the feel of her snuggling into his arms, wrapping her lithe arms around him, clutching him to her in a tender... hug. Her trust. That acceptance... 

Trying to shake himself out of this, he calls to mind her embarrassment over their bonding and then has to force himself to think of something else, before it sours the moment beyond repair.   
  


He's had enough experience with sex. This isn't that. This... this is something new. Different. Something he hasn't had and somewhat terrifyingly is beginning to suspect he... _wants_. And for reasons he can't begin to fathom, his subconscious seems to think he wants it from _her_ , or that _she_ could provide it. Sadly, a good part of him hopes, fervently, that it's only because their bonding limits his options to her, utterly unwilling to admit that look had held a promise he's never seen before and would - very much - like to explore.   
  


When her breathing returns to normal, when he doesn't seem inclined to say anything about what transpired, Hermione tries to engage him, "I suppose you're the cauldron, and I'm the kettle."

"By extension, I imagine that would make the Kneazle the kettle cord, the way he clings to you." He checks that the blanket covers her properly and then tucks it more snugly about them. 

"Half-Kneazle," she corrects; she really can't help it, it's almost as automatic as breathing, at least when she isn't being tickled. He snorts his amusement into her untamed mop, nostrils flaring at her scent on the deep inhalation that follows. She's smiling broadly when she continues, "And surely that would make him an extension cord."

When she doesn't add anything else, he resorts to an obviously tired but still snarky, "Well, I'm certainly glad we've established our roles. I don't know what I'd have done without it."

She laughs softly. "Sweet dreams," she says, glad of the chance to finally say it to him directly and nuzzling his hand again. 

He finds himself nuzzling her hair back as he falls asleep, her bushy tresses tickling across his chest even more softly than that magnificent blanket he's sure he doesn't own as they breathe, and again fighting an urge as he finally nods off to extend the couch and just pull her to him. 

Her floating comforter will have to do. 

"Good night, witch," he manages to whisper as sleep takes him. 

Later he'll be absolutely certain he dreamt the whole thing, and then be disturbed as to _why_. _She'll_ assume she took advantage of his inebriation and desperately won't want to mention it. But she'll think of it often.

And smile. 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, guys. Wandered off and had 'minor' surgery, except I'm the patient from hell* and there's no such thing; some jitters were involved. However! It actually seems to have 1) accomplished what we meant to 2) without causing new issues (fingers crossed), for once, for which I am _very_ grateful. ( _Massively_ grateful.) And I did associated nervous faffing about which may have involved legos and playing with birds of prey. 
> 
> No, seriously. I went _falconing_. Y'know, with birds and everything. It was _awesome_. And owling, I guess. _Gorgeous_ animals. Also: huge!
> 
>  _And_ lego came out with a new line of ~~Harry Potter~~ Hermione Granger legos, on the off chance any of you are into that and didn't know. (I _squeed_. *nods*) I now have Hermione and 'Snape' BlockHeadz gracing my workspace and making me smile. (The Kylo Ren figure repurposes nicely. Just saying. ;-)) Also, our Toys 'r' Us stores have 'free' minifig packs with 'qualifying purchases' which include the Snape in Neville's grandmother's clothes (the Boggart) minifig. If you're interested, it might be worth checking if they have it in your areas as well? 
> 
> * I'm not rude, just complicated... Naturally. ;-)


	87. 11 11-12 Tues - Wed - Wake Up, It's Time for Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Severus and Hermione 7G, Crooks, Sunny (the Snapes' house elf; lurking)_

Severus wakes more slowly than usual, which leaves him with a distinct sense of déjà vu. There's a brief moment of disorientation, before his positively bursting bladder convinces him this is definitely _not_ a dream. 

Good to know. 

Not that it explains what he's doing on his stomach. Or on the couch. Or half clothed... Then the reason for his bursting bladder makes its way to the forefront of his recollections, _ah, yes, copious quantities of firewhisky_ , and suddenly he finds himself less in need of explanations for anything else. In fact, it probably explains why he has no desire whatsoever to stand up and take care of that rather pressing matter. 

Nevertheless, he's just steeling himself to do so, needs must, when he takes in the fact that he's got his arm wrapped around something soft and warm. 

Something soft and warm that just _sighed_.  
  


That's met with a jolt of panic, the degree of which would be funny, considering his calm in the face of a great _many_ things were he given to humour in the moment; oddly he is not. 

But he also doesn't need long to decide _that_ is a far more pressing matter than his bladder.  
  


A fair few things come filtering back into his memory, now suitably jogged, and briefly he finds himself trying to sort the dreams from the reality. There's an even larger flare of panic as he cautiously peers over the edge of the couch, and his relief is great to discover Miss Granger lying on her comforter on the _floor_. Sunny had been so kind as to return her safely to ground level, not that witch or wizard will ever learn of it. 

Severus immediately revises that thought, that _shouldn't_ be a source of relief, _obviously_ , but he'd half expected to see her floating next to him, and he's glad - _exceedingly_ \- that he dreamt that bit. 

Not that he feels comfortable in the least with the fact that he _did_ \- no, he probably has some explaining to do - but that's a different issue entirely. 

At about that point he recalls with some horror a decision to take a Sectumsempra to the couch, and another glance down confirms the floor upon which Miss Granger is lying is far too close. _Clearly_ , he must have done so. Although that should have been obvious at first glance, really, given the position of the witch. _Oh, for fuck's sake._ Drunk, he's apparently in possession of about as much sense as the average troll. Bloody _brilliant_.

He has no words. No, wait. _Fucking_ _idiot_. That's a _fine_ place to start... 

He's about to take it from there when, with an actual, physical tug of his arm, a certain bondmate fortunately pulls him from his self-recriminations. Just as well, as those thoughts really weren't worth pursuing, and yet he'll doubtlessly feel the need to resume along that path come morning. All the more reason not to do so now. 

She still has his arm tightly wrapped in hers, and he lies there for another couple of minutes now considering what best to do here. 

First things first, he buys himself some time and with a wave of his hand and a silent incantation sorts the matter of his bladder. That certainly helps, and then he recalls Miss Granger's commentary on the spell, _that's surely the height of laziness..._ , and lets out a low snort of laughter. Well, she wasn't entirely wrong. 

The witch shifts at the sound, pulling his arm more tightly to her in the process, and he casts a Muffliato on himself to ensure he doesn't wake her, presumably buying himself a little more time yet. 

He has to wonder why he doesn't just rouse her and put a decisive end to this absurd pyjama party of hers, although _his_ pyjamas seem inexplicably incomplete... But he really isn't eager for the inevitable drama that would cause, and he can admit he... likes the feel of her where she is. Trading that for a scene seems counterintuitive. 

Surely _ill advised_. 

He sighs. 

In answer, she shifts again, one might assume more from the feel of his breath on her than the sound of the exhalation she can no longer hear. If he were to describe it, and strangely he seems to be making an effort to do so, he'd have to say she's _snuggling_ against his arm. Objectively, it _is_ a pleasant sensation. He's not remotely sure that it's something they _should_ be doing, but that's also a different issue. And he's human enough to prefer this - significantly - over the various forms of rejection the bond had relayed. _So_ constructive. 

So he lies there trying to think how to best extricate himself - very literally - from the situation. He could use a Somnolence Charm to ensure she sleeps through it or Confund her if she begins to wake... In light of what had happened to her Friday, he has no desire to do either. But he also doesn't want to discuss this, _any_ of this. Ever. And most definitely not _now_. 

He wonders again what she thought she was doing there. He's firmly decided the _blame_ , such as it is, lies with _him_ for... sleeping in the lounge; it had sent the wrong message. A certain decorum should be maintained, that was indisputable, and he had clearly sent the wrong signals. No, that faux pas had been his, absolutely. 

He's still satisfied with his assumption that she thought she was keeping an eye on him, he just can't fathom her motives for doing so. He's divided if this is simply how she is, and considers the times he's seen her perched by her friends' bedsides in the Infirmary, or if this is something she believes needs doing due to his recent rescue, or, possibly worse, because she'd had to come to _his_ rescue last night. Or perhaps because of their bonding...

He deliberates if she isn't also subject to some deep-seated convictions about how bondmates, _husband and wife_ , _should_ behave towards one another. And then he has to wonder if that isn't likely to cause still more problems. 

Eventually he accepts that he can't answer those questions one-sidedly, not that he'll pursue a discussion, that's patently ridiculous, but as he can't resolve the issue tonight, it's probably time to see to getting himself to his own bed. 

He finally decides to trust to luck, which doesn't seem like him, or maybe he's tempting fate, and vaguely he blames the firewhisky once more. He adds it to the list of reasons to avoid over imbibing again in the near future. 

Carefully he works his arm free, and he _does_ get lucky for once. Probably not in the way he _prefers_ , but in present company, it will more than do. She doesn't wake. That leaves him on the couch, now propped on his side, observing the witch crashed out on the floor beneath him. 

He doesn't feel comfortable just leaving her there while he retires to a comfortable bed. He also doesn't remotely like the image of just callously stepping over the sleeping witch. It feels too much like something his father would have done. 

He doesn't think long about it, he performs a wandless Wingardium Leviosa, and suddenly her duvet rises and she's hovering next to him. He feels the need to swallow, and tries not to think about why that sight suddenly has his mouth going dry. It had only been a dream, but he can't deny he got the idea for _this_ from _that_. He extends a hand and pushes her gently from him so he now has room to stand. 

He could swear the Kneazle, half-Kneazle, throws him a look from Miss Granger's chair as he does. Severus does his best to ignore it. 

Another pass of his hand, and the comforter floats higher - because really, what was he _supposed_ to do with the witch at shin height - and he suppresses another flash of annoyance with himself over his mishandling of the couch. He is an _idiot_ of the first water. 

He adds it to the growing list of cons for, or rather against, too much firewhisky. 

A Wingardium Leviosa is definitely _not_ the Charm for conveying people from place to place. It's all well and good to lift the blanket, but he's just as likely to topple the witch from it, and then where would they be? (He _does not_ think about Friday's disgraceful application of the Spell, at least not for longer than a fleeting moment.) He has a few choices now, but strangely he doesn't consider them long. Gently wrapping the duvet around the little witch, he scoops her into his arms. 

Ironically, in the bridal carry he'd only recently avoided. 

Sure, he could have used a Mobilicorpus on her... Just like he had when he lifted her into chambers Sunday evening in fact. On reflection, that probably wasn't one of his finer moments. He feels a little guilty about it. He was being petty, and she deserved better. But he _hadn't_ asked for this, and _doesn't_ want this, and it's difficult not to be a little resentful. 

Still, that doesn't mean he needs to take it out on the witch. 

She definitely hadn't asked for it either. 

No, she's made her displeasure abundantly clear. 

Well, the _bond_ has. She's been quite good about it, all in all. He probably can't fault her - much - for how she _feels_. No, that was Albus' fault, and if he hadn't subjected them to the emotional link, with the way Miss Granger had conducted herself, really, Severus never would have had cause to suspect just how uncomfortable she was with this arrangement. 

But she'd been right, it's better all round if they try to get along, and she's held up her end. Quite well, in point of fact. And he can't deny he preferred her, or at least what the bond had to transmit, when she _wasn't_ riled. When she was... content. 

Somewhat lost in thought, he tucks the comforter more tightly around her and begins to make his way to her bedroom. Which _of course_ is when he almost stumbles over one of the _fucking_ couch legs that are now apparently flying about the place. 

_Bloody buggering hell_. 

Splendid. 

Ah, but that Muffliato comes in handy after all. Small favours. He thinks appropriately dark thoughts about himself, both for the furniture desecration and his clumsiness, but he manages _not_ to drop the witch, _not_ to land on his face, and he _doesn't_ even wake her for that matter. All considered, quite a result. 

And then a few other things sink in. 

The things the bond transmits right now are watered down, and he assumes this is how her emotions... feel when she's dreaming, sound asleep. But she hadn't worried as he stumbled. She felt... secure. He tries not to read anything into that (which proves more difficult than he thinks it should), as she wasn't exactly particularly _aware_ of the situation, but there's a quiet confidence on her part that she's safe where she is that feels rather agreeable indeed given he's the one holding her. And in answer to the spike of pain on his part - his toes hadn't appreciated the stubbing in the least - in answer there was... concern... For _him_ , if he's interpreting that right. It feels... different to fear. 

It's sort of... nice. _Ludicrous_ , utterly and completely, that someone would worry about his _toes_ , of all things, considering what had been done to him only yesterday, but _nice_ all the same.

He shifts his left arm forward to free his hand so he can cast a spell to sort the bits and bobs of seating littering the room, again thinking perfectly suitable thoughts about his idiocy. It's the arm underneath her upper body - his right has her knees - and as he does so, the witch shifts a bit closer to his chest. It seems almost automatic now, and it doesn't even really surprise him when she wraps her arms around him and tucks herself into the crook of his neck just as she'd done Friday. 

He might not be surprised, there's something unexpectedly natural about the gesture, but he isn't so accustomed to this sort of thing that it doesn't stop him in his tracks. He stands there for longer than he'd care to admit, even to himself, just... appreciating it. 

The way she's pressed to him, and he prefers to phrase it like that rather than saying 'clutched' which is at least equally accurate, he can feel his heart beating in his chest. He hopes it's just due to the pressure; he suspects it's not. 

He's seen enough of the witch in action over the years to know she's casually affectionate with her friends, and he doesn't read anything into it - for Merlin's sake, she's _asleep_ ; there's nothing _whatsoever_ to it - but he isn't used to this and it... There's something pleasant about being on the receiving end of this as well. 

He's sighing again. He's a hair's breadth from chastising himself for acting like some besotted teen - he's neither - before he tells himself to stuff it. It had inarguably been the best thing to happen to him Friday - not that there had been much contest, but still - and he has no intention of denigrating himself for deriving some enjoyment from it. He's not a complete idiot, no matter _what_ he's done to the lounge suite. 

_Although if not a complete idiot, he's indubitably the next best thing_ , he allows with a glance at the flaming couch. 

Holding her a little more firmly, but surely only so he doesn't drop her while sorting the room, he flicks his fingers to Banish the couch legs to one spot. He has no desire to try to explain the state of the couch, and it's far too late to deal with it properly. He'd shake his head at himself in frustration, but the witch chooses that moment to... nuzzle against his neck and shoulder, and somehow he completely forgets to heap on the self abuse he'd intended. 

Hoping to make things appear at least reasonably undisturbed, and it's perfectly possible he's an overly picky judge of such things, a Disillusionment renders the severed furniture legs invisible, and then turns to face the couch. Oh, bloody... It looks like something from an Arabian fairy tale, and he'd pinch the bridge of his nose at the sight and realisation but he sort of has his hands full. Another flick and wave, and he elongates what's left of the stumpy legs, if they could even be called that, and soon he's Transfigured them to a rough facsimile of what had stood there before. The grain is all wrong, overwhelmingly so, but there probably aren't more than three or four people in the castle who'd be likely to notice, and he's the only one of them with access to their chambers. 

It will have to do. 

And with that he turns again to carry Miss Granger to her bed, failing completely to ask why he hadn't done so before righting the room. 

The elf, who had been napping Disillusioned on the mantle before Severus' swearing disturbed him, simply observes that with a satisfied smile. He'll wait there, dozing, until Severus goes to bed and then retire to his own room. The cat, similarly observant, merely leaps from the chair and follows Severus from the room.  
  


The pains Severus had taken with the witch before are eclipsed completely by the effort he now expends not to wake her. There's a moment where he desperately hopes she remains sleeping as he sets Miss Granger down on her bed with all the care he can muster, given he'd _very_ much hate to explain what he's doing in her room if she woke. Then there's an uncomfortable feeling that it might not be good for her _in the least_ if she did so under such circumstances, all considered, and just _why_ _he'd_ subject her to this. And then there's an even more uncomfortable feeling that if she _weren't_ upset by it, it might somehow be _worse_.

He probably has a dream or two to blame for that thought. 

Still, he takes a bit longer than he can justify to see to it that she's tucked in against the non-existent chill of the night. The Charm heating the floors of their chambers does an outstanding job of warming the rooms, after all. But Severus likes to be thorough. Quite. And he hasn't a great deal of experience tucking witches in. And assumably about the same amount with _wives_. 

The thought gives him a queer turn. 

The Kneazle, half-Kneazle, leaps onto the bed and nestles in against the witch as Severus withdraws to the door. She almost immediately curls her body in response around the ginger beast, so that she's now on her side facing him, and Severus remains there staring for a while. He couldn't explain why. 

There's an indefinite thought about her feline monster that doesn't seem to want to take shape, it's probably better that way, and then he registers the plastic pet carrier next to her bed. A naff arrangement not in keeping with the room he'd carefully crafted, and he takes it in with a moue of disapproval. Well, it had to go _somewhere_. Really, _it had to go_ full stop. It's not like she couldn't have shrunk it and stashed it in her wardrobe... Fine, but it seems Severus had somehow neglected to provide her with a bedside table, and this had been her solution. 

And the creature doubtlessly needed a home. 

That's an oversight he'll remedy at some later point, but for the moment... He lifts his hand again and a few Spells later, he's made it wooden to match her suite and rendered the carrier's lines more in keeping with the set. It would still serve to suitably house the beast, not that said beast seems at all interested in leaving the witch's side - although considering her warmth, Severus can half understand the inclination - and it now makes a better nightstand thanks to its widened surface. 

He's done the Transfiguration so smoothly, the water in the vase atop the carrier doesn't do more than slosh slightly as he works. There are decided advantages to sobering up. He stays there taking in the overall effect for a few moments more, not altogether certain what he should feel at the sight of her wedding bouquet at her bedside, although he snorts when he spies the chocolate frog. She'd certainly earned that. 

For all he'd been so eager not to have her wake to find him in her room, he has to wonder what he was thinking to Transfigure the carrier like that. So much for trying to go unnoticed; this means she will realise he had put her to bed. Although unless she's prone to somnambulation, that was presumably a given. He may as well have posted a sign, 'Severus was here'. Well, she'll probably assume he used a Mobilicorpus again to put her to bed, and now he's left wondering why he didn't. But the answer lay in the way her head had snuggled into his shoulder. He can still feel the ghost of her warmth against him, and the sensation of that witch's trust...

It meant _a lot_. 

For someone who'd been through the trauma she had recently suffered to _trust_ him, to _not_ see him as a threat... And that had been his reason, after all, for wanting the bonding. He doesn't want anyone to _ever_ see him as his father's son. It's one thing to have that line in the sand magically shored up, something he can never, _will never_ be forced to cross. It's another altogether to have a traumatised witch look at him and _recognise_ that about him. 

That... That's not how he's usually seen. 

He can recall his closest friend, the person who knew him _best_ , looking at him once like he was some kind of unforgivable monster... _Irredeemable_. And regardless how unacceptable - and it _was_ , no question - it had still only been an _insult_. A _slur_. To have someone who had suffered through what Miss Granger had see _him_ as _trustworthy_ , _safe_... Yes, there had been a great deal of... comfort to be found in that.  
  


With another sigh, he pulls the door to behind him. He stands there for another moment gathering himself, shaking off what he decides are maudlin drunken musings and then gives the lounge a final cursory look about before retiring. He can only assume Sunny had tidied things up some. Hagrid's rock cakes are mercifully vanished, the elf deserves his gratitude just for that alone, the plate back on its shelf. The firewhisky has also been put up. 

Severus huffs his amusement at that. 

Perhaps Sunny should have done that sooner. And then he has to laugh at himself. It's a good laugh, it's honest. He knows full well he'd never have tolerated it. No, Sunny does an excellent job of navigating his moods. They make a very good team. 

Severus moves to fold that magnificent blanket, manually, oddly enough, but the thing was so incredibly soft... He manages to catch himself, only just, before he sniffs it once more, still trying to identify that elusive scent. He was right, though, it isn't his blanket. It must be Miss Granger's, although it matches the other things in the lounge perfectly. 

Well, she's a witch after all. There's a soft smirk playing about his lips as he thinks it. 

And then in a sudden fit of indulgence, there must be _some_ advantages to inebriation after all, he stops folding the blanket, throws it over his shoulder and takes it to bed with him. 

He can always return it to the lounge before the witch wakes in the morning.  
  


Atypically, wrapped in a blanket that still bears the as yet unidentified, lingering scent of a witch the next room over, Severus is actually able to grab another cycle or two of sleep, and it's _better_ than usual. _Far_ better. More restful. Deeper. And he doesn't even notice when he finds himself sleeping on his side, now facing their shared wall.

  



	88. 11 12a Wednesday - Rise... 1 Severus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Severus, Hermione, Poppy, Sunny_

Severus wakes. It's still dark, which means it's still terribly early, and yet he has the feeling he's gotten a good snootful of sleep for once. Odd. He rolls onto his back, wondering what he was doing on his side; the thought strikes him as familiar. He doesn't pursue it, that feels wise, but he does rather decadently pull the blanket around him and permit himself a bit of lie in while he tries to think about the day. 

It's proving a little difficult. 

He has a headache to end all headaches, and no intention of doing the first thing about it. In part because he's an idiot. In _large_ part. He feels that's been firmly established. _Repeatedly_. But also because he feels he deserves this, and it has a way of focusing him on something substantial. Something real. Something quantifiable and ultimately solvable and he needs a real and manageable problem for once, instead of the never ending mounds of unsolvable things. 

He's a little tired of those. 

Still, the headache seems somewhat extreme, until he recalls the fact he took a phial of poison yesterday. Or rather, had one administered. Hmm. Yes. That. The witch was _not_ best pleased. And then a few other things come slowly back into focus. Spectacular. Well he'd been in rare form yesterday. _Incredibly_ rare, thank Merlin for that. 

Small mercies. 

An assortment of memories, not exactly prioritised, shift into mind. He's married. Somehow _still_ sleeping alone, ta. That's probably _preferable_ , considering the identity of his bondmate. Not that there's anything _wrong_ with her, but... A _godsdamned_ _student_ and Albus is an _arse_. Ah, yes, and _he's_ an idiot. He'd consented after all. 

That nearly sums it up. 

And then he recalls that for a portion of the last night he _hadn't_ slept alone and it finally drives him from his bed. There's no peace left to be found there, no matter how nice that blanket was. Although it was very. He imagines that's why he still hadn't put on his pyjama top even after going to bed late last night. Well, that and his blood alcohol level. Hmm. 

Resigned to facing the day, he lights the sconces, it's easier than adjusting the charms on the windows, and makes his way to the bathroom. 

He rinses his face, and the shock of the brutally cold water combined with the pounding in his head as he bends forward mercifully saves him from thinking about the past night or unusual sleeping arrangements any more. Right now, the most important thing in the world is remaining upright. Breathing. Getting his stomach under control. The wave of nausea leaves him wondering if he could still be drunk after all these hours. 

He lathers his face and allows the foam to work on his beard for as long as possible. He still prefers a mechanical shave. A _Muggle_ shave. Lucius can naff off. 

While brushing his teeth, he does some calculations. They take far too long and would tend to confirm the theory as to his drunkenness, except he _knows_ it shouldn't be possible. He can't _possibly_ still be drunk. Then he wonders if it's a synergistic effect from mixing the alcohol with the poison, and then he wonders if he isn't drunk at all, merely suffering from the residual effects of _that_ particular draught. Or interactions of any of the more than half a dozen _other_ potions he took, now that he thinks about it - and isn't his timing a thing of unparalleled brilliance? 

Well, hardly _unparalleled_. 

He briefly thinks dark things about Gryffindors and something sardonic about how he was obviously missorted, fuck, then he tries hard _not_ to think about Gryffindors, past or present, and finally he goes over everything he knows about the potions as he showers. Which seems more productive. Either of those things taken separately, and certainly both of them taken together. As he lathers his hair, he realises he knows quite a bit about the assorted draughts and their ingredients, and next to nothing about interactions with the poison. Unsurprising, perhaps, as _most_ aren't stupid enough to consume it, and _if_ they did, not fortunate enough to survive. (But then he has it on reliable authority, and here he scoffs, that _he_ isn't the average wizard.) Well few are blessed with his perspicacity vis-à-vis potions. 

On the other hand, his sagacity, such as it is, had clearly gone walkabout over the course of the last evening. Firewhisky should not be underestimated. He's reasonably sure that even the witch had felt the effects thanks to their bond. 

Well, that's... efficient. Certainly _cost effective_. Talk about cheap drunks...  
  


He _wasn't_ thinking last night, therefore he... probably had had a spot of luck. For once. It was fortunate that the bezoar worked as well as it did. 

Of course that's what they're _supposed_ to do. 

Work. 

Much like himself. 

Hardly seems worth singling out for a mention.  
  


And as for that witch and... whatever that was last night... He shouldn't have slept there, she shouldn't have joined him. But. If he doesn't do that again, there should be no danger of a repeat performance. He has no plans to get rat-arsed again, _definitely_ no time soon. (He almost groans at the thought of more firewhisky, and his stomach prophylactically rebels.) He believes he should be able to avoid... sleeping in the lounge moving forward, because he is _quite_ certain she wouldn't dare invade his bedroom. Really, there's no danger of a reoccurrence, and he fails to see why they would even need to speak of it. 

Which sounds like an _excellent_ plan moving forward. 

Clearly preferable to the alternatives. 

He gets out of the shower, towels off, silently and wandlessly charms the towel dry and wraps it around his waist, charms the mirror free of steam and wonders, as he does often enough, if he should look up how to refresh the semi-permanent charm that should sort that (in truth, it's just not a priority), and then commences shaving. He manages not to cut himself once, which he'd take as a good sign, but then he's practically a natural with any kind of blade. Had he cut himself, he'd truly have to worry. 

In an effort to moderate his idiocy, Merlin knows there'd been enough of that, Severus applies his improved version of the Scar Salve to his chest. He _should_ have done that yesterday. (He doesn't consider that it was also another instance of the self flagellation he's been given to of late. It's so pervasive as to escape his notice for the most part.) The Salve penetrates his skin instantly, absorbing almost completely and leaving virtually no residue behind, _very_ unlike the standard stuff. And while all of that is nice, no question, what's _especially_ nice is what it does for the pain. He can feel the soreness fade immediately and takes it for further proof of the idiocy he _really_ needs to moderate. He's got enough things working against him. And along those lines, he decides to actually take his medicinal potions like a good boy. Poppy would be so proud. 

Still, no biccy for Severus. When is there ever?

He sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. He wonders why he bothers. 

Anticonvulsant is still advisable after the number of Crucios Monday. At least in theory. He's having difficulty accounting for the fact he doesn't seem to actually _need_ it. Perhaps that's down to the alcohol affecting his nervous system... Or his perception is off. Erring on the side of caution, he takes it anyway, following it with the rest of his potions, hesitating only over the Calming Draught before taking that as well. He _should_ be able to accomplish everything it can and more with Occlumency alone, but then he doesn't need to, and with what the bond's been throwing at him lately, perhaps it really is time he gave himself a break. 

He gets dressed, rubs his towel energetically over his head before Banishing it to the bathroom, runs a comb through his hair, applies the charms to do his buttons, grabs his wand and then the strange blanket from his bed and folding it - _manually_ once again - emerges from his room into the still dark lounge. Another twitch of his fingers has the sconces in the lounge lit and then those in his bed- and bathrooms Noxed. He closes the door behind him. Sunny will sort the bed. It had taken some getting used to, learning to leave things for the elf to do. Over the years, he believes they've reached a good compromise. 

The fire flares in the hearth, proof, if he needed it, that Sunny is keeping an ever watchful eye on him and determined to make him comfortable. Presumably even if it kills one or both of them; he's the quintessential elf in that regard. There's no other visible sign of the elf, but then Severus is used to that. 

He returns the blanket to the couch with a final sniff he'd not like to account for, but the simplest explanation is he still hasn't quite identified that scent, beyond the obvious lavender and bee balm notes, and really, that _is_ rather his thing. He has to wonder what it's made of, it's ridiculously soft, _and_ of course it smells nice. That he doesn't just mean the wild flower meadow scent is a whole different matter. 

Fortunately it eludes him a while longer. 

As he drapes it over the back of the couch - he imagines that's a good spot for it, but perhaps Miss Granger's chair would be more apt; no doubt it will find a home soon enough - he recalls the truly _remarkably_ stupid decision to take a Sectumsempra to the seating. What kind of idiot would do such a thing to perfectly decent furniture? He pinches the bridge of his nose in annoyance, frankly some days he manages to tax his nerves every bit as much as the students do - then he thinks of Longbottom and Kurz, and Potter and Weasley, and recategorises that statement as hyperbole. 

Well, he has a couple of things to address and then he'll have a look at the bloody couch. Four scrolls are waiting for him on his desk, a quick look shows he apparently has Theo's work for Charms today and what must have been Draco's Transfiguration assignment from yesterday. Minerva won't have appreciated that. Severus smirks. He's also holding Crabbe's History of Magic work - pity, Binns will hardly notice or care, it won't do more than cost the boy a decent mark - and Goyle's essay for Hagrid from Tuesday. Ah. _That's_ more promising. 

He'd also had Crabbe's work from Care of Magical Creatures on Monday. Two in one week from the same class. Yes, it has possibilities. A word in Hagrid's ear should do the trick. Assuming it could be reached. Much like the half-Giant. But then that was unfair, Hagrid has always been quite respectful - well, by and large ( _especially_ large) - Severus has to allow him that, and after the... _incident_ with his ribs Monday, he imagines the man will be rather... accommodating. 

That makes for a pleasant change. 

He grabs Draco's Transfiguration scroll and begins reading to see how the lad's doing in the course as he crosses back to the Floo. It seems the least he can do before he Incendios the thing. He snorts his amusement. It appears Draco would have gotten full marks for the effort. Undoubtedly that will make it sting more. He finds that... satisfactory. 

Severus throws a small handful of Floo powder into the fire and calls for Poppy as he casts the spell to burn Draco's homework. 

She doesn't take long to answer. She almost never does. 

"Oh, good morning, Severus. How are you feeling?" 

Given he has no idea how many people are listening to their conversation in the ward behind her, she's even _less_ likely than usual to get an honest answer to that question. He has to wonder that she even bothers asking it, but then she can probably no more help herself than he can. 

"Fine, thank you for asking, Poppy, and no doubt I have your care to credit with that." She smiles at that, taking far more pride in _his_ words of praise than in the job well done. That's only what she expects from herself. "I was wondering if you had any of mine in the Infirmary last night?"

Considering just the Serpents alone yesterday afternoon, at the very least Draco should have been there, _especially_ given the absence of Pain Relief in the dorms. The thought draws another smirk from Severus, his mood buoying a bit. There's also a strong possibility there had been fallout after the Serpents had been opened. He lives in hope. Not really. But with the fur he personally _knows_ was waiting in Crabbe's bed, he should be very disappointed if the boy wasn't there as well. 

"We had just the one, Mr. Crabbe, but he left just before curfew." The timing strikes Severus as strange; the visit was probably due to the Serpent, then. That also strikes him as odd, that _one_ Serpent should have been sufficient to land the rotter in Poppy's hands, but that Draco's _three_ hadn't. But he imagines he'll learn the details of the Poste Serpentes soon enough, either from the students or the portraits. 

For the most part, things don't remain hidden for long. 

"Glad to hear it, Poppy," he replies, neither particularly meaning nor sounding as though he meant it. No one listening was expecting anything else from him, so it's not exactly revealing. "I assume I'll see you at lunch." Merlin knows, he wasn't planning on subjecting himself to the noise of the Great Hall for breakfast. Frankly, he's not even sure about _food_ just yet. 

Poppy just smiles at him and says 'goodbye'. She'd been kind enough not to thank him for the flowers with the students on the ward eavesdropping; she's fairly certain the Ravenclaws are awake. She can always thank him in person later. Severus really can be quite a dear. _And_ a curmudgeonly old stick in the mud, there's no point in denying it. Although looking at the things so often inflicted upon him, just this past week alone, for instance, she's not altogether sure 'dull' applies. And yet she knows no one else more resistant to change. 

Well, he can try to be as resistant as he pleases, things have _already_ begun changing for him whether he likes it or not. She can't help smiling at the thought. 

Doing a Tempus to check that the time is reasonable, she can be considerate that way, she reaches for the Floo powder to call Minerva.  
  


Honestly, Severus had been anticipating hearing just how poorly the boys were doing from Poppy. This leaves him a little less eager to think of them. As he's decided he won't be seeing other staff before the assignments lying on his desk are due - by coincidence, today's assignments are both for morning classes - there's little rush to look at them, and his interest wanes. He decides to take care of the couch instead. It will doubtlessly bother him until he's sorted it. 

The first order of business is finding the damn couch legs. Except he'd Disillusioned them. A blanket 'Finite Incantatem' is seldom wise - Merlin knows what all it's likely to undo - but on the other hand it's generally not all that effective either. Mixed blessing. It helps, greatly, to direct the Incantation at a specific target and spell. He stands beside the couch looking about, and begins circling it, muttering to himself about things as he goes. Opportunely, _quite_ , Sunny seems to guess what he's looking for, or perhaps it was the muttering - so useful - and promptly he trips over the stack the elf had been so good as to put directly in his path. 

Splendid. 

Fortunately his toes are less affected by the collision this time thanks to his boots. Good things, boots. He can't recommend them highly enough. He _might_ have padded about barefoot in his pyjamas - he rather appreciates the underfloor heating - if there weren't a student potentially running about his, _their_ chambers. As it stands, that concession to propriety has saved his toes from another stubbing. On balance, unquestionably almost worth the bonding for that alone. 

Oh, _absolutely_. 

But as he has no idea the elf put the legs in his way, his less than civil thoughts are entirely self-directed. As so often. 

He ends the Disillusionment on the legs and then turns back to the couch. Another 'Finite Incantatem' returns the remainder of its legs to their current form. 

Fucking hell. 

It's the bloody _corgi_ of couches. 

Well, if he'd been at all uncertain as to his seriously diminished capacity for reasoning yesterday - just in case the _poison_ hadn't settled that once and for all - _this_ definitely takes the prize. Brilliant. 

He has _six_ legs, essentially identical save the grain, that need to be reapplied to the couch in the proper location and orientation. This will involve crawling. 

A surprising number of things do. 

_Fine_. 

Somehow it seems... appropriate. 

A Wingardium Leviosa lifts the couch a bit, he gets down on the floor and begins the perfectly onerous task of trying to match the leg to the... stump. He _absolutely_ deserves this. Any trace of his previously improved mood is now long gone. Completely and thoroughly dissipated. He _does_ however have a charm at the ready to reaffix the pieces once he has them matched. That had been... crucial when he was learning to work the wood in the first place. It doesn't even leave the trace of a seam a Sticking Charm would. He finds it... acceptable. 

Truthfully, even _he_ won't be able to tell this had ever happened when he's done. His resolve to give himself a break apparently only goes so far. 

He works for a while in relative silence - save more muttering - when suddenly light begins pouring in through the windows, illuminating the room from one moment to the next. He casts a Nox on the sconces in response. It must be seven. 

He's got two of the legs done - it should become faster the more he finishes - when he can feel something... shift via the bond. He stops his work and... listens to it for a moment. 'Feels' might be a better descriptor. Either way, he has no doubt _she's_ awake now. Then it's clearly time to stop, because he has no desire to be caught crawling around in front of her door like that. Possibly he has even _less_ to draw attention to what he'd done to the couch; he's undecided. Another Transfiguration lengthens the four remaining stumps just as he had last night, he lowers the couch to the ground and it again looks... unmolested. 

At least there's that. 

He glares in the direction of the kitchen towards the cupboard that undoubtably holds the remainder of his bottle of firewhisky once more. Always assuming he hadn't finished it and blacked out. He doesn't think that was the case. The lack of certainty, however, is a mite worrisome. But then, what isn't these days?

He Banishes the four remaining legs to the furthest corner of the window seat and Disillusions them again before taking his seat at his desk and resuming his perusal of the seventh year boys' assignments. He's just finished reading Goyle's Magical Creatures' work and is about to Incendio the scroll when Miss Granger comes bursting into the room - at least that's how he'll recall it - and he momentarily forgets the Incantaion for the Fire-Making Charm. 

The one that they teach to the _first years_. 

_That_ one. 

He blames whatever the hell she's wearing today for _that_.  
  


He is proud, _exceptionally_ so, of _not_ Transfiguring her knickers today. Even if it was only just. The _narrowness_ of that escape is naturally a source of far less pride. 

Her legs seem even longer today, and he has a bizarre thought that she's applied the same Charm to them as he has to the couch. Or that he had perhaps cast it too broadly and somehow affected her in the process... Either of which would be highly improbable. He shakes it off. 

Whatever that thing she's wearing is - a _night_ _gown_ surely implies more fabric, doesn't it? - it emphasises her... erm, her... _assets_. _All_ of them. Merlin, at least he hopes that's the lot...

There's an even more uncomfortable moment when he wonders if _that_ was all she was wearing when he carried her to bed last night - thank Merlin for thick comforters - and goes astonishingly pale. But he's quite certain, and doesn't care to examine how or why (and most definitely _not_ the associated snippets of memories), that she _hasn't_ changed. Somehow he'd allowed the fact the thing had sleeves, no matter how... tiny or loose, to calm him into thinking it wouldn't have been so short. Or low cut. Or _form flattering_. 

It's the empire waist that nicely emphasises her... endowments that seems to be causing him some trouble. If she had any idea _how_ much - but then _that_ is undoubtedly what his skills as a master Occlumens are for, apparently he has trained most of his life for _just_ this moment; too perfect - she'd be sorely tempted to Transfigure her entire wardrobe. Small favours. 

Ah, and of course the shortness of the skirt. Which is so short he's not sure how it can be called a skirt at all. Yes, that _too_ has him off keel.

He stands there blinking. At least he's no longer frozen completely. Although he's not quite sure blinking helps... 

Well, it's decidedly... short. Small? _Skimpy_. Not as much so as Monday's... thing, but still... And it's the deepest green. Which suits her. Very well. Far better than the white had. And then he has to wonder if that is a genuine response, an _objective_ one, or something... _possessive_. To the extent he's able, he decides it's genuine as he would probably have chosen black were he simply being possessive, and then he has to try not to think about what that means given that he'd already effectively done that Monday morning. 

Her legs really do appear incredibly long, he hadn't imagined it. He's still struggling to explain that - it's probably a feature of having what must be every last millimetre of them on display. He imagines because he can't see her knickers (surely also only just) - or at least he _thinks_ he can't, he's trying hard not to look one way or the other - but the fact he doesn't _register_ them (with his rather excellent peripheral vision) seems to suggest to the eye (that is very much not looking, ta) that her legs go on forever. For such a petite thing, she seems to be eighty percent legs. Which would also be improbable. He's reasonably sure. 

He's _less_ sure about where to look. And where _not_ to look. He would consider scanning the Black Lake for the Squid or examining the ceiling for cracks right now were he only able to tear his eyes away. 

Oddly, so very, he seems physically incapable of that just at the moment. 

Monday there had undoubtably been more to see, but the very fact her knickers were visible had caused him to desperately not wish to see. And naturally the off the cuff Knickers-to-Tracksuit-Bottom Transfiguration (surely that should be a thing) had helped. (And now it would be _Minerva's_ turn to be so proud. Severus had learnt his lessons well.) _This_ , by virtue of covering more, _slightly_ more, somehow seems to draw his eye, suggesting a safety that most _definitely_ isn't there. 

He swallows, his throat all too explicably constricted. Then he has a strange turn, as it occurs to him that the thing he'll probably be proudest of today is the fact he _hadn't_ Transfigured her knickers - _again_ \- and he's wondering when his life was reduced to... _this_. 

Probably Sunday. 

Possibly as early as Friday even, he's unsure. It hardly matters. What _matters_ is getting a blanket around the young woman again.  
  


And then it seems they will need to have a talk after all.

  



	89. 11 12b Wednesday - Rise... 2 Hermione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hermione, Crooks, Severus_

Hermione wakes refreshed, having enjoyed a good night's sleep. It's a lovely feeling; pity it doesn't hold. 

She's not certain when she last slept so well. She cuddles into her duvet, Crooks purring against her as she thinks about it. 

She has to admit she hasn't been, really, not for some time now. Not since she began to realise just how dangerous things were becoming out there. And certainly not since she'd Obliviated her parents. _That_ had a way of making it hard to sleep at night. 

Goodness, did it ever.  
  


She hasn't identified it yet, which makes it all the harder to do anything about it, but her bondmate's less than stellar mood is rapidly leeching the pleasure from her morning. Without a Draught to help or the ability to Occlude... Well, correspondingly her thoughts turn darker.

And as if all of _that_ weren't enough, then there were the events of Friday and Monday evenings which had given her understanding of 'threat' new meaning. They have affected her far more than she begins to realise, and those effects run deep. 

By now the sense of peace has all but evaporated.  
  


Monday... Monday had been _horrifying_ and it hadn't even happened to her... 

And then of course there had been all the various joys her bonding had brought... 

She'd meant people's reactions, because they certainly haven't been good, as a whole, but finds herself pinking a little at the phrasing and thoughts it now calls to mind as she remembers just _why_ she'd slept so well...

Well, it hasn't been _all_ bad either. 

And _that_ is the advantage Hermione has. She's not pessimistic by nature. She also feels things very strongly, far more so than Severus usually allows himself to, and particularly given how often and to what extent he Occludes, it should prove difficult for his feelings to be able to completely overwhelm hers. 

Next she's trying not to think too much about just what the moments when she'd actually gotten some decent rest recently had in common... 

If she isn't mistaken, and she so rarely is, that... _commonality_ is currently at home. There's an almost soft strength, a _warmth_ to the background feeling of the wards that would seem to indicate it. That sensation _within_ the wards _isn't_ the same as the feeling when she _crosses_ them, entering their chambers, it's far subtler - which is probably just as well, or it's safe to assume she'd never get _anything_ done. But _that_ sensation feels different now than it had when she'd returned yesterday and he'd still been in the Infirmary. It's... nicer. 

Better. 

_Safer_. 

But as she lies there trying to define it, there's something else... 

As she considers it, she becomes aware of the faintest... pull, the very slightest tug, and she tries... _listening_ more closely. That attempt applies to the bond as well as the wards. She hasn't the experience yet to differentiate between them with her attention, and it's a little like listening intently and ever so faintly hearing a piece of music, without the skills required to discern a single instrument's voice. But it... seems the bond may provide information as well, beyond the emotional connection. At a guess, and she doesn't quite understand it, but if she _had_ to guess, she feels certain he's _very_ close by. 

Yes, she feels as though she could definitively say he isn't in his laboratory or office, or - and here she blushes a little - in his bedroom. Neither left nor right, more towards her feet and... the lounge. It's a strange thing. She makes a note to test it. At the least, she'll determine if it's caused by the wards or the bond. His laboratory, office, and classroom seem to fall within the wards, to some extent or another, so she may need to wait for an opportunity... Ah. But given she has no plans to return to the Great Hall for meals, possibly ever, breakfast should do nicely. 

And then she wonders if he'll be up for it after yesterday's... Well, _that_.  
  


Crooks snuggles against her belly, seeking or sharing warmth, depending on which of the two one asks (or understands), intent on ignoring the light streaming in which seems positively indecent for the hour, he is _sure_. Still, he's just happy they're both on solid ground, well, _bed_ , and there are no more floating blankets involved. As much as he likes the self-warming comforter their wizard had made - oh, and he _does_ \- he draws the line when elf magic makes it defy the laws of physics as he understands them. It transpires 'gravity' is a concept half-Kneazle's are capable of grasping even without formal instruction.  
  


But Hermione isn't falling back to sleep. She stretches, taking in the light in the room, finally absorbing the fact she's _back_ in her room, and _hadn't_ been last she knew. And then she notices Crooks' carrier. Holy Cricket! It clarifies, absolutely (or at least she _believes_ so), how she got back there. Undeniably the Professor had put her to bed, and doesn't she pink fantastically _now_... Well, it was _that_ , or Crooks has suddenly developed the ability to Transfigure his carrier, which seems unlikely. 

She sits up and turns to examine it. 

It's _beautiful_. 

All in the same style as the rest of her room, and she's quite taken with it. It's a good thing, too, because it helps make up, at least a little, for how she assumes she _got_ to bed in the first place. She can see it all too clearly in her mind. Beyond any doubt: a Mobilicorpus, much like Sunday's, had been employed to unceremoniously dump her into her bed. _Gently_ , unquestionably that, he'd been good about that Sunday, too, and ultimately he hadn't woken her in the process, _obviously_ , but _still_. The verb she is _certain_ applies is 'dumping'.  
  


Frankly, the thought sort of _stings_. 

Again, his mood makes it difficult to remain upbeat, and she adds that conclusion to thoughts of his repulsion, or yesterday's oh so flattering 'Why on earth would I _wish_ to start with _you_?' Yes, that _had_ stung even more. It doesn't leave her feeling very good about... things. 

She tries to reconcile that, any of it, with last night, when for a few minutes, admittedly while he was drunk out of his gourd and not particularly conscious, he'd been nearly... pleasant. 

And of course the answer lies entirely in the state of him at the time. She slumps a little at the realisation. And in the back of her mind, something unfortunate poses a faintly whispered question about what that says about _her_ for taking advantage of it. Of _him_...

So she tries, hard, to focus on her new bedside table (adjusting the objects on top of it a bit as she does so as the proportions are now different, and the little arrangement is currently - clearly - suboptimally distributed), and she wonders how much she'd be deluding herself to think he'd made it with the thought it might... appeal to her. She suspects it had simply offended his sense of order, having the large plastic box in his, _her_ bespoke room. Well, she can sympathise with the sentiment and decides she needn't hold it against him. Still, she has to fight against envisioning him trying to perform the Mobilicorpus to get her into the room from the most remote corner of their chambers... That it would undoubtedly be extremely difficult if not impossible to perform the Transfigurations necessary on the pet carrier in that fashion should give her pause right there, but somehow her feelings have gotten hurt and she's no longer capable of recognising that. 

Which is probably the point her thought process for the morning become unfortunately compromised. 

It happens. 

A little too often of late, but then she's had a lot on her plate, thank you very much. 

She climbs out of bed, grabs her wand, pads into her bathroom, and lights the sconce, examining herself in front of the mirror. Well, her hair obviously needs work, that was hardly surprising, in fact, it's probably some natural law, but Holy Cricket! Her nightgown looks... 

_Good_. 

She hadn't actually looked at this version before, not in the mirror. She turns a little, back and forth to get a better view of it, and is extremely pleased with her work. This really isn't her strong suit. _Fay_ is usually the one the girls turn to in their dorm for clothing Transfigurations; no one _ever_ comes to 'Mione for them... Well, except Harry when someone's turned his things green again, but that application is rather limited in scope, and basically a Finite Incantatem. On balance, she thinks she's done a _fine_ job here indeed. Well, until she turns a little further and sees the back. 

She's _really_ not sure what happened there. 

Apparently she Transfigured it last night, she... vaguely recalls it, she'd been quite tired and, um, well, perhaps a bit... distracted. Right. (It transpires that blushing is worse when one is standing in front of a mirror and can fully observe the results.) She tries to focus on the fact she'd done the work wandlessly, which is a source of no little pride. All her practice with the spell had certainly paid off. That was nicely done. 

Not that it in any way compensates for her fashion sense. 

It seems she'd magicked away most of the back. (She remembers _why_ in _brilliant_ , technicolor detail; does she _ever_.) But in order to keep the waistline - she'd found it quite flattering - she'd apparently fashioned some sort of tie midway across her bared back. It looks... it looks pretty silly. Like a swimsuit that's broken... _weird_. 

She's trying to recollect, she's seen backless dresses before. Dresses that had the back free and yet, um, still emphasised one's bust... (And the fact her nightgown has a few pleats of fabric across her breasts, which she knows - for a fact! - one of Ginny's Witch Weekly magazines last summer had quite _plainly_ stated made one's, erm, bosom appear larger... Well, she might need to think a little about why she'd done that.) She's wondering what those dresses do differently until she recalls the famous picture of Marilyn Monroe in a white _halter_ dress. 

Which was clearly a far more elegant solution. Clothing _really_ isn't her strength. (And then she tries not to think about why she might be taking an interest or trying just a little bit harder with it _now_...)

She's a breath away from Transfiguring her gown again, when it occurs to her she doesn't wish to appear as if she'd 'dressed' for the occasion and decides to leave it unchanged. What _should_ have occurred to her is that formulation only makes sense if there _is_ an occasion to have dressed for, and someone to see the results of having (or not having) done so. It escapes her completely that she's already come to a highly questionable decision. 

_'Why on earth would I_ wish _to start with_ you _?'_ She wants that taken back. She wants that taken back, because it was frankly insulting and who wants to be insulted? And she really, _really_ hopes that he didn't mean it and that last night wasn't just down to her taking advantage, because she isn't like that... _Is she?_ And maybe, just maybe, just a little tiny bit, yes, she'd like that for its own sake, that he didn't mean it. Not that she has a crush or anything... (Or at least not much of one...) But she wants it taken back.

That should be a doddle. 

She goes to the bathroom and as she washes her hands notices her index finger still has a faint glow about it. She Noxes the sconce to be sure... and yes, it's definitely still glowing. By the light of a Lumos, she washes her hands more aggressively, ends the Lumos and checks again. There's no discernible change. She targets her hand with a Cleansing Charm, to no effect. A little desperately, she tries a Notice-Me-Not, which doesn't appear to help either. Next she casts a Disillusionment on her finger, not that this would be a solution, she can hardly walk around like that, but by this point she's both experimenting and grasping at straws. The finger _does_ disappear from view, save a shimmer, but the glow... The glow remains, outlining the invisible digit. 

Bugger. 

Finally she decides she can't rectify it, and as it doesn't seem to have come from... physical contact with the Professor, she stops trying to sort it, ends the Spells, relights the sconce and sets about getting ready. 

Although it _is_ bothersome. 

She tames her hair and brushes her teeth the Muggle ways, then performs the Cleansing and Cleaning Charms Madam Pomfrey had taught her, sees just what the former does to her hair (it's nowhere near as bad as the Refreshing Charm, _floof_ , thank goodness, but _still_...) and _immediately_ reaches for her hairbrush once more. Heavens. Next she makes use of the Mediwitch's Hair Styling Charm, and turns again in front of the mirror, evaluating the results. 

She thinks it's not bad given what she had to work with, which is all too typical of her. She never doubts her capabilities for an instant, well except for O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s and... well, examinations in general probably. But she doesn't think very highly of her other qualities, seriously calling her appeal into question. In addition to being a teenaged girl (even if the Ministry is right about her age, she's _still_ only a teen), for which that opinion is practically a defining characteristic, the response to date of her male counterparts at school has only reinforced that view. She neglects to consider that her intelligence, swotiness and indisputable social awkwardness may simply outweigh her attractiveness in their estimations. In her opinion, it wouldn't make any difference, as those qualities are very much a part of the final packaged product. Of course, she'd be neglecting to consider that not everyone views those aspects as drawbacks.  
  


Hermione is capable of a hundred thoughts in the time _some_ people of her acquaintance seem to manage just the _one_. About Quidditch. Or _food_. Or maybe _nothing at all_. Her brain has always been her greatest asset, she is so very thoroughly and _completely_ convinced of that. But every once in a while, not often, but far too much so for her comfort, there's a cognitive... hiccough that leaves her at a complete loss to explain herself. At least after the fact. 

The most worrisome thing, naturally, is it usually seems like a perfectly good idea at the time. 

_This_ , she will come to realise in a short time, is just such a moment. 

In her defence, not that it will help much, but things have been quite a muddle lately, and she's suddenly found herself with what feels like a dozen new things to prove. She's not exactly the master of her own feelings these days. That becomes so much harder when other's are added to the mix.  
  


Next, she's imitating a gesture she's never actually felt the need to try before, but has seen Lavender, Fay, Ginny and occasionally Parvati do. (That probably should have been a sign. In neon. But signs really only help when noticed.) Cupping a hand under each of the... girls, she grabs her breasts and plumps them a little higher in her nightgown, assessing her décolletage and adjusting the fit of her gown's top. Satisfied with the result, it really isn't going to get any better, she returns to her bedroom. 

Still feeling guilty for leaving the bed making to poor Sunny Monday morning, she twitches her wand in the direction of the bed, and trying out an experiment she'd noted for herself, yes, the Freshening Charm does _indeed_ make the bed without a patient lying in it. 

The bed, however, _hadn't_ been _completely_ empty, and a rather loud 'MROOOOWrrrrrrrrr' that climbs and then descends several scales alerts her to the fact she'd just effectively made the bed on top of her poor half-Kneazle. Ah. The half-Kneazle who is now apparently scampering about beneath the covers rather comically. Guilt, naturally, dampens any potential amusement, her loss, and it leads to a flurry of action. 

"Crooks!" She cries, leaping towards the bed and digging him free. The look he gives her could put an end to global warming without anyone ever having to lift a single paw, but Hermione doesn't notice as she clutches him to her and apologises profusely. As Crooks has come to associate those words with - yes, here it comes - his favourite cat treats, he's quick to forgive. She naturally takes that more for the result of her abundant apologies and affection, delusional humanoid that she is, and keeps pouring on both as she gives him his next Kneazle treat. _Humans_.

Once his body language suggests he's no longer particularly put out, well, not more so than usual anyway, she stands, still holding the diminutive lion, waves the wand to make the bed again, and then sets him down lovingly on the centre of it. 

It will do. 

Deciding he appears sufficiently... mollified, she gives him an experimental twirl to show off her work and asks, "Well, Crooks, what do you think?"

Crooks, for his part, really can't help thinking her get-up looks _nothing_ like the regulation uniform as he drifts back to sleep with a yawn. 

As responses go, it's a bit thin, but Hermione unfortunately isn't to be daunted, and without further ado, she emerges from the room.  
  


If the vast emptiness she can feel across the bond is anything to go by, and it probably is, the Professor isn't pleased by her... appearance.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm experimenting with shorter chapters again (because: why not? and this one turned into a 14.6k monster and sorta demanded truncating). There should be three within the next week. What can I say, I'm a little random. (That's probably just a nicer way of saying 'erratic'. ;-)) If it matters to you when you get the update, just hit the 'subscribe' button in the lower middle-ish (it's a word if I say so?) of the menu. 
> 
> And as long as I'm writing a note... I neglected to mark a couple of benchmarks; it's time to rectify that. Over 25k hits, over 2000 comments (and extra-special 'thank you's to Trickster32 (;-*), Grooot, FrancineHibiscus, MyWitch, LostAngelSoul, Goldenbassets, Madameslytherin, Beestung2025, Calket and so, so many others for your continued support. <3\. Just <3.), and over 1100 Kudos. All of which puts a super massive smile on my face. That's all down to _you_ guys. 
> 
> **Thank you _so_ much to everyone who has commented, kudoed, bookmarked, or just plain read (believe me, that counts). **
> 
> You keep me writing. <3


	90. 11 12c Wednesday - Counterpoint and Clothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hermione and Severus, Sunny_

When Hermione enters their lounge in her sleepwear... Monday it had been inadvertent. Fair enough. But Wednesday... Wednesday it's deliberate. And that's a whole different matter. 

Of course, when _he_ gets around to thinking about that, that will be perfectly clear, and that dawns on her - a little late - with a start, and she stops right where she is. He knew, he could _feel_ precisely when she woke. She's found time to brush her teeth and hair, and even apply Madam Pomfrey's Charm on her unruly mop; it still needs work, but it's a far sight better than anything she could achieve without a bucket of Sleekeazy's and a couple hours' work. And it's readily apparent. _Conspicuous_. So, yes, that will be all too obvious. Fortunately, he isn't thinking about that just now. 

She may just have given him too many other things to think about. 

Unaware of this, she just stands there, facing him. More than a little uncertainly now. Of course, the fact he's Occluding to within an inch of his life means he picks up on absolutely nothing going on with her. It can be a mixed blessing. 

It's possible she's still offended by his _'Why on earth would I_ wish _to start with_ you _?'_ The fact she's quoted that to herself a couple of times this morning would seem to confirm it. It's also conceivable, in the face of his repeated... _rejection_ \- and that's a very loaded word that may not be entirely fair in their situation, but sometimes it's hard to remain objective - it's conceivable she wants to get a rise out of him, um, possibly somewhat literally. And in light of what feels like near _universal_ rejection these last few days, it's becoming increasingly important to find... _some_ measure of acceptance. She's also very eager to just feel _herself_ again. It's difficult, especially when she's not admitting just how much Friday had affected her, to put her finger on what needs to change, and she's a bit desperate to prove to herself and everyone else that she's untouched by Friday. 

She may as well boil the ocean. 

The very fact she's posing in a decidedly revealing ensemble in front of the Professor is a damn good indication she's _completely_ wrong about that, she'd never have _dreamt_ of doing such a thing a week ago. _That_ should definitely tell her something - a _couple_ of things even - no matter how wilfully deaf she chooses to be.  
  


Severus, still unable to tear his eyes away, simply extends an arm behind him as he rises and Summons the red throw from the window seat. It seems this is becoming a thing. 

Hermione recognises the blanket and the response from Monday, and automatically takes a step back, away from him, which serves to stop him from Banishing the blanket towards her. It wouldn't have been the politest of responses - at least marginally better than throwing it in her face, to be sure - but then he had no wish to approach her clad only in... whatever that was. And he's still highly uncomfortable with the thought he'd carried her to bed in that... _thing_. No, there is _no_ chance, _none at all_ , that he's getting _anywhere_ near her. 

He stands there, still holding the blanket. "Miss Granger, might I suggest a robe?" She doesn't respond. Of course she doesn't. "Should you not find yourself in possession of one..." His right hand lifts the blanket suggestively, _not_ _suggestively_ , well, he's suggesting she _cover up_ alright. Oh, for fuck's sake... 

It feels... confrontational. Admittedly, he isn't finding her sudden appearance, scantily clad in their lounge exactly _nonconfrontational_ , and he's responding to that. Possibly in kind. Hopefully only that. 

Hermione, however, has had a _lot_ of confrontations the past few days. As difficult as those days have been for Severus - and they were, no question - he doesn't get anywhere near as much grief from people as she does. They may think their piece, but - _generally_ \- they tend to leave him alone. (Hagrid and Minerva had been - very - notable exceptions.) Hermione, on the other hand, has been the recipient of an absolute outpouring of public... opinion. It's left her rather quick to anger, to fight back. Possibly too much so, but then, it's been a difficult week. And it's only Wednesday. 

It triggers her fight or flight response, and at the moment that seems to be set steadily to 'fight'. It feels like she's spent the best part of the past two days fighting almost everyone she knows. Why should the Professor be any different? 

"Whatever for?" She fires back. "You've seen me in less." Severus looks blank - as well he might; it was probably his best option, in fact - and she prompts, _ridiculously_ , as though that were _necessary_ , and he hasn't been desperately trying to forget it, " _Friday night_?" 

He just swallows and stares at her in disbelief in response. He may need to beg Albus for an Obliviate after all. Although on consideration, the statement was true of Monday morning as well, he'd seen more of her then, too, for the second it took him to Transfigure her... outfit. And doesn't he wish that weren't the case...

"And there was a lot less to see then than with the typical Muggle bathing suit." She finishes strongly, completely convinced of the truth of what she's saying and stubbornly refusing to see anything wrong in her behaviour or to even entertain the notion of checking to see if _maybe_ there is. If she _did_ so, that would only mean something is off. _Could_ be off. And it clearly isn't. It _can't_ be. So this is _normal_ , the new normal, and perfectly defensible. And she's exactly the woman to do so. 

It just leaves Severus battling not to think of the bloody black bikini that had come to haunt his dreams. 

He sighs, setting the blanket on his desk. He realises the problem won't solve itself, when do they ever, and he has to speak to her about this. He stands there, crossing his arms, trying to find a way to phrase this, selecting and discarding a number of approaches and finally opting for plain soldier. "But more suggestive," he answers quietly, almost neutrally, which has the effect of actually reaching her in the way anything more aggressive _wouldn't_ have. 

It knocks her a little off kilter. 

"Well, what does it matter? We're _married_ ," she rejoins, shooting for glib and missing it wildly. She's panicking a little, and it's a coping mechanism, but he's Occluding too much to notice. 

"Cause and effect, Miss Granger! That's not a mitigating _circumstance_ , that's a miserable _consequence_! Had the first not occurred, the second would not have followed." 

And he _does_ sound miserable, she has to give him that. She's realised this was a misstep. Not the full breadth and depth of that misstep, but at least that it _was_. It's a start. "Well, it's hardly your punishment for having seen me in such a state." 

"No, it's for not having the boys in my House better under control," he sinks back into his chair, now a vision of misery, and she takes pity, turning to Summon the blanket Madam Pomfrey had given them from the couch. She drapes it over her shoulders (trying not to think of when and where she last saw it), and swears she can see the relief on his face. 

It riles her a little. The more standoffish he behaves, _after last night_ of all things, the more it leaves her feeling she _had_ taken advantage of his... incapacitation. That's an extremely bitter pill for some all too glaring reasons. And having extended an olive branch in covering up, she now feels she's compromised too much, bent too far, and she ignores both his claim and state entirely, attacking instead. 

" _You_ were the one to tell me I should make an effort to demonstrate just how untroubled I am by Friday's... _events_." And who knows, if she could prove to everyone she _wasn't_ affected, perhaps she'll come to believe it more, too. "This is something I actually _haven't_ got a problem with and here you're trying to convince me I _should_. The _last_ thing I need is people forcing _their_ wishes on me, still _more_ limitations, and certainly not just to accommodate other's _sensibilities_."

That sits. Merlin knows, she's been victimised enough, and he feels more than a little guilty about it. The idea _he_ should be forcing her into that role... leaves him highly discomfited. He withdraws some, considering the reproach. 

She's not comfortable in her own skin yet, she knows that, she _senses_ it - how could she be? - but this is something that _genuinely_ doesn't bother her (after all, how many hours of her life has she spent in public in a bathing suit without a second thought?), and it feels like someone is trying to give her yet _another_ complex about something she _isn't_ currently bothered by and she could use that like a hole in the head. Well, _another_ hole in the head. Eyes, mouths, ears, nostrils... Heads really do have quite a number of holes when one reflects on it... 

But the fact he seems to be thinking about what she said, that he doesn't appear moved to attack her for her charge, soon has her calming a little and trying to consider _his_ position. It's not that he doesn't have a right to his feelings, or that she can't understand that he might wish to maintain some... formalities between them (she begins to blush faintly at the thought of the past night) and some adherence to etiquette in their, _his_ home. Because that's what it was, what it _had been_ until just a few days ago. _His_ home. And she's invaded and seems to be causing one problem after another for him. 

The problem is what they want here seems to be mutually exclusive. Their respective wishes may be diametrically opposed, but surely he has some rights too... Only what he wants, what he'd ask of her, she's thinking... it _feels_ like it might make it harder for her to cope and... She gives up trying to solve it on her own and tries a different tack. "Maybe we can find a compromise," she suggests, more hopefully than confidently. She hasn't really got a concrete suggestion. Maybe he does. 

She stands there with that soft blanket wrapped around her, it hangs low and open, exposing rather a lot of her shoulders, her upper arms, her décolletage, her creamy skin... Absently he wonders how a creature he is now fairly certain consists of eighty percent legs can also be twenty percent neck. And distantly he's aware that he knows for a _fact_ she's also in possession of an extremely bushy, detail-filled head. Although perhaps not quite so bushy at the present. 

"Mmmhmm," he manages, and shakes it off. But he has also already recognised that there is no compromise. "What do you propose?" He keeps his sarcasm in check, his tone once again almost neutral, he's still too far out of his comfort zone, and his headache certainly isn't helping matters any. He hasn't lived with anyone, shared rooms since the _seventies_ and this... Secretly, he's come to suspect he's not up for the challenge. Not in general, and certainly not on this morning in the particular. 

She laughs, because there isn't really a solution. A little cheekily, almost compulsively unwilling to leave a question unanswered, she quips, "I could wear whatever I please as long as I'm Disillusioned." 

Well, it's certainly an answer. Somehow the idea that she could possibly be running about starkers at any given time, even if she _were_ Disillusioned, seems even worse - far worse - than that thing she's wearing now. (And doesn't he hate that _that_ was the first thing he thought of...) He may need to develop a very specific Notice-Me-Not to address the issue. Or dress it, as the case may be...

He stops crossing his arms long enough to pinch the bridge of his nose, which has come to feel rather abused of late. Funny that.  
  


Severus hasn't realised it yet, but he's fortunate that his... preoccupation with her clothing, or lack thereof, is keeping him from noticing some of the other... creative alterations to the furnishings he'd undertaken the previous evening. Sadly, that distraction also won't hold; a stay is far from a reprieve. But then, when he _does_ register it, undoubtedly his head won't be in quite the state it's currently in, and he'll be better equipped to face it. 

Presumably. 

It should improve his day immensely.  
  


He's about to fold, if only to get himself out of the conversation. He'd accepted they might need to speak, but this wasn't quite the conversation he'd expected; it's somehow _worse_ , and he just wants it to _end_. He simply can't understand how only yesterday she could be suggesting they make their quarters a uniform free area, ostensibly to accommodate _him_ , and then a morning later turn around and try to twist that into... _this_. It leaves him wondering if this is what she'd intended all along...

Further, it's proving annoying, _rather_ , that she's inexplicably adjusting to their shared flat arrangement better than he is... And then it occurs to him that - very much _unlike_ himself - _she_ has the clear advantage of having last shared quarters with others only _days_ before moving into his. But once he gets past the initial wince that recollecting her student status invariably seems to evoke - he doesn't think he'll _ever_ be comfortable with that - that fact calls something else to mind. And he begins to understand. 

She's not trying to be difficult. 

She's _overcompensating_. 

And he's unconscionably slow-witted not to have thought of it sooner. He's not entirely sure if her outfit or his hangover is to blame. He decides both are valid excuses by themselves; combined, they'd left him insufficiently equipped for the situation. 

He is also very mindful of some of her recent experiences, although he isn't yet as aware of the effects of having had to experience his torture via their bond Monday as he'll come to be. Incontestably that wasn't in the same league as having had to experience them oneself, there's no question, but _he_ is a great deal more used to such treatment, had expected no less, and better able to shake off the effects. She isn't yet. With luck, maybe she'll never be. But she _isn't_ in great shape, and even the things he knows about provide him with sufficient insight, once he stops to consider them, and it dawns on him that she trusts him sufficiently to stand there dressed in a flimsy nightdress, if it can be called that. That and nothing more. 

He doesn't know precisely what she's trying to prove. He hopes, _very_ sincerely, that this has nothing at all to do with last night. But she's essentially sharing quarters with a strange man, and still she _trusts_ him. Given what had happened to her, had she chosen to lock and barricade her door against him - not that it would have done much good in the face of the arsenal of Spells he could bring to bear on it, but still - _had_ she done so, he'd have understood perfectly. He might have chosen to be insulted anyway, but it most definitely would have made perfect sense to him. Instead she'd curled up - on the floor - beside him. It's one thing in semi-public, in the Infirmary. But she'd chosen to do so where she had no one more than her ginger beast and a house elf for chaperones.

She _trusts_ him. 

Not many do. 

He keeps coming back to it, there's something... touching about her trust. 

And with understanding comes renewed patience. As evenly as possible, he asks, "Would you have walked around the Tower dressed like that?"

His tone is pitch perfect; it's not an attack, simply an enquiry. Goodness, he could be asking the time. Once again, that enables her to _hear_ him. With all the fighting and abuse in the past few days, she's sort of stopped _listening_ to people quite as much. For the most part, that had been useful. _Advisable_. Sometimes, that makes things worse. Not that listening _now_ makes her _feel_ any better, but in a real sense, it still _helps_. 

He's right, of course. Absolutely. She wouldn't have, even if it _were_ allowed, which it isn't. She blanches, her creamy complexion turning a disturbing shade of pale, and then there's a slight rosy blotchiness starting at her cheeks and working its way down her chest as she begins to blush on top of that response. 

But Hermione's beginning to panic, because _if_ he's right - and he _is_ \- then there are a whole slew of questions that need asking and answering about 'why', and a lot of the things she's sensed but has tried _very_ hard, and fairly successfully, not to think about are threatening to come crashing down on her... 

"Miss Granger," Severus tries to shake her out of it. But her eyes have begun to tear up, and soon the first teardrops begin to fall. "Miss Granger!" He tries a little more firmly, and she raises her eyes to meet his, and there's a more than passing resemblance to a trapped animal about her. He's not pleased with his options, but faced with the imminent threat of a sobbing witch or taking action... 

He stands with a barely suppressed sigh and crosses to her, half wishing he had fewer qualms about employing a Stupefy, and slowly reaches out to tuck her more thoroughly into the blanket. He leaves his hands on her now covered shoulders and softens his voice again, but it's deep and steady, _sure_ , and it leaves her no room for doubt. "It will be alright. There's no need whatsoever to worry. We'll work things out, and it will all be quite alright." He's not sure he believes it, or that he actually wants another project, in fact, he's quite sure he _doesn't_ , but the _relief_ that blooms across her face is nearly immediate. She brightens almost instantly. 

And it's something else. 

She's looking at him like... 

She's looking at him like people look towards _Albus_. Like he magically has all the answers, and she _believes_ him. (Which is complete poppycock.) Like what he says must be so. (Which is utter, unmitigated _balderdash_. If _that_ were the case, someone would have demanded he turn in his Slytherin scarf _decades_ ago. What rot...) But he couldn't begin to count the number of times he's watched people look at Albus like that, and he'd sat there silently taking them for fools. And honestly, as he'd just pulled the assertion that everything would be fine out of his arse, that rather leaves the witch in _exactly_ that category. Believing in empty promises and claims... 

And yet there's something about her placing her faith in _him_ that leaves him a little unwilling to disappoint her... At least not immediately. That it must come _inevitably_ is another matter, but perhaps they can maintain the fiction until she's a little more recovered and better able to master her problems on her own. 

If only for what the bond conveys, it would unquestionably be the wisest course of action. 

Naturally. 

And of course it had been quite the return on that little bit of effort on his part. That seems... efficient.  
  


Sniffling faintly, she begins trying to knuckle away the tear tracks. Without relinquishing his left hand's hold on her shoulder, he fumbles with his right in his robe pocket for the handkerchief that seems to have gone missing, and as he remembers when and why turns to look at her. She smiles slightly - it may be watery, but it _is_ a faint smile - as she clocks the gesture and points towards the nearest end table. He turns his head to discover his handkerchief lying folded beneath the pot of Scar Scarcefying Salve, which she probably shouldn't be drawing attention towards. But she's lucky and he assumes Sunny has simply been tidying again, particularly in light of the accuracy with which the thing's been folded and arranged. He Summons it wandlessly with his right hand - the Accio goes so smoothly, the Salve doesn't do more than spin in place on the table as the cloth square is pulled from under it - and silently hands the handkerchief to her once more. 

She _almost_ smirks at that. The gesture itself was comforting, even though the hankie doesn't have the advantage of smelling like him as it had yesterday (which only makes sense, really). She could swear the blanket _does_ , though, just a little, and she's wondering if it's that, or the properties Madam Pomfrey had spoken of that were working to calm her. Chances are both, and that the Professor's firm grip on her shoulder is helping as well. 

Naturally Sod's Law dictates he stop almost immediately. 

"Why don't you take a seat and calm yourself?" He glances at the chairs, the bloody corgi couch, and immediately discards them as options. He wants _distance_. He's eager, _very_ eager, to return to the safety of his desk - the _shrunken_ desk, the _demi-desk_ , but still - eager to have a desk between them and the reinforcement of the role that will assuredly provide. He gestures towards the window seat, and unhanding her shoulder has already begun a hasty, half backwards retreat in that direction. The witch follows closely on his heels. Toes. Whichever. Both. 

He's not even entirely sure she's heard him. Her movements seem almost automatic. 

He's moderately pleased when he manages not to stumble up the steps to the reading nook (that has a way of ruining the image he strives for, but would have been quite fitting for the way things have gone of late) and slides into his new - and decidedly _less_ comfortable - desk chair, before she can think to suggest he join her on the window seat. 

She looks like a deer caught in Muggle headlamps. A _hopeful_ deer. She sits there staring at him, batting her oversized eyes (he adds five percent eyes to the improbable list of her attributes, knowing full well he's exceeded one hundred; he'll probably deduct it from the neck estimate), dabbing with the kerchief at the tears that had fallen. If he thought he was out of his depth before, he is _certain_ he's out of it now. She curls up on the seat in front of the window to the Black Lake and tucks herself into the blanket. He could swear he just saw her sniffing it, too, which amuses him slightly, relaxing him just a little. They're of the same opinion then, the thing smells wonderful. 

They may not quite agree as to _why_ , however. 

She looks at him expectantly and he's frankly at a loss. But he's a Potions Master. When at a loss, he goes with what he knows best. "Perhaps you should take your Draught of Peace now?" 

"If I do, it will wear off during Arithmancy. I need to wait a while longer." 

She's right, of course, and that's... that's irksome. _Beyond_ irksome. And embarrassing, which is probably even more irksome. Splendid. He's being schooled - _in his field_ \- by his _student_... spouse. He is _never_ , _ever_ getting bladdered again. 

Or allowing himself to be poisoned. 

That undoubtably should help. 

Naturally he won't acknowledge the accuracy of her objection. Wild thestrals... "I had meant it when I said you were safe here. We may need to work out some difficulties, it would be naïve to assume otherwise, but the fact remains you should consider these walls a safe harbour. Nothing will happen to you here." She nods, and he moves to tackle the matter at hand. "But for my sake, I would appreciate it, _greatly_ , if you would accord me the same respect as you would anyone else."

She half smirks, that had been her suggestion after all, hadn't it? And she can't quite resist saying so, "I _had_ proposed agreeing to treat one another with mutual respect and civility."

He smirks back. He had _thought_ that word would appeal to her for just that reason, and he much prefers a smirking witch to a crying one. He's also reasonably certain that was an exact quote. She's... reliable that way. He's counting on that cushioning his point. "So can we agree that if you wouldn't wear that in your common room, then perhaps you should save it for your _own_ room here?"

She blinks at the intrinsic rebuke, but the waterworks don't start again, and both are relieved when she's able to just nod in response. So much so that neither is altogether certain which of the two of them exhaled in relief. Probably because it was mutual. 

"Well, except for making chambers a uniform free area..." She finally replies. He's not sure he'd ever agreed to it, or even that this was now a question, but as he has no desire to be sat across from a constant reminder of _that_ particular joy of Albus' abysmal bonding plan, he finds himself nodding a mite stiffly and she smiles in response.  
  


They're silent for a moment, neither sure what to say. Severus would be perfectly happy to leave it like that, if she'd just be so kind as to withdraw to her room. He's rarely so lucky. 

But he isn't the only one who seeks comfort in well established roles. 

Hermione is used to being the one to rebuke others, she's also accustomed to taking care of her friends - much like certain house elves of her acquaintance - whether they want her to or not. With no one else to direct her deeply ingrained habits towards, Severus becomes the focus for some of that energy. He should be overjoyed. 

"Were you planning on going to breakfast?" She asks, channeling Luna once again. He promptly decides she's never been hungover, and then has to go back to trying to ignore her youth. He also incorrectly assumes she was hoping for an escort out of the dungeons. He truly had had no intention of eating, and certainly none of facing the rarely paralleled cacophony of the Great Hall. Strangely, he has no desire to explain what should be the all too obvious reasons _why_. 

"I had planned on taking my breakfast here," he answers instead. And naturally that breakfast would have consisted of nothing. He isn't particularly inclined to mention that either. She looks crestfallen, because this will undoubtedly interfere with her plans to have Sunny bring her _her_ breakfast here. He misinterprets the reason for it as nervousness at the thought of having to make her way alone past all the Slytherins, failing to recognise _they're_ far less of an issue at the moment than the table full of Gryffindors she'd then be required to join. One might _think_ he'd be naturally predisposed to consider them problematic, but oddly he neglects to do so in this particular instance...

"I'm sure I could rustle up something for us to eat if you wouldn't mind the company?" She sounds terribly hopeful again, and he feels caught in his... equivocation.

"I thought your cooking was worse than Hagrid's?" He tries to put her off.

And fails. 

_She_ merely smiles, "Oh, it is. I wasn't planning on cooking." 

He now has visions of her plating up the Kneazle's, half-Kneazle's kippers. Somehow it isn't that appealing. His lips thin to a fine line at the thought, "Thank you just the same." Beginning to resign himself to the inevitable, in a last ditch effort he suggests, "I could have Sunny bring us something instead?"

Her smile broadens and he decides he's doomed. He doesn't know why he'd hoped that might scare her off. He might have been banking too much on her Elven Rights scheme. He gives up. He calls for Sunny, who typically appears almost as soon as he's called in his neatly pressed robes, and asks Miss Granger what she'd like. She asks _Severus_ if she might have orange juice, and while he can understand the desire for anything _other_ than pumpkin juice, can he ever, he finds her breakfast order exceptionally modest. They're offering her whatever she'd like, and she simply orders what they're having in the Great Hall with a side of orange juice, and seems to find it decadent at that. Severus has also accepted there's no way to do this without a Potion or three to settle his stomach and head, and in for a penny... He orders a fry-up. 

"Sunny, I'll have two poached eggs, please, some back bacon, two bangers, fried mushrooms, grilled tomatoes and tattie scones. I'd like the orange juice, as well, and tea, naturally. Miss Granger, are you sure I can't tempt you?" 

Her doe eyes, now wide as saucers, answer that before her mouth does, and he asks Sunny to bring them two orders. 

"With milk," Miss Granger pipes up. Elf and Professor turn to face her, and Hermione clarifies, a little shyly, "In the tea. If you don't mind." 

"For breakfast? That should go without saying," Severus answers with a small smirk. For half a moment she looks like she wants to debate that, but given they're both taking it the same way, she lets it go. His smirk broadens in recognition of that surrender. Turning to the elf again, he doesn't even get to finish his, "Thank you, Sunny," before the madly grinning elf disappears. Severus can only imagine what's pleased him now. 

Looking at the witch curled there in the blanket that's once again slipped to reveal what he now knows are extremely soft shoulders he asks, "Would you perhaps care to use the time to find something... more suitable to wear?"

She blushes terrifically and leaps from the seat, leaving the blanket behind and hurrying past him with a, "I'll be right back..."  
  


Apparently they'll need to work on that. And he may need to work on a Notice-Me-Not after all.

  



	91. 11 12d Wednesday - ...and Whine 1 Assessment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **_Seventh Years_ **   
>  _Draco 7S (Prefect, Team Captain, Seeker, Swot), Theo Nott 7S (Swottiest), Blaise Zabini 7S (Keeper), Vincent 'Vince' Crabbe 7S (Beater, Couch Potato), Gregory Goyle 7S (Beater), Tracey Davis 7S (Swottier), Daphne Greengrass 7S (Sparkly!), Pansy Parkinson 7S (Prefect), Alberta Runcorn 7S (Grumpy.), Millicent 'Millie' Bulstrode (Reserve Beater)_
> 
> **_Sixth Years_**  
>  _Harper Hutchinson 6S (Prefect, Chaser), Aaron Avery 6S (Reserve Chaser), Sheldon Shafiq 6S (Reserve Beater, and charm on legs), Torsten Touchstone 6S (sleepyhead)_
> 
> **_Portraits_ **   
>  _Headmaster Phineas Nigellus Black, Salazar Slytherin (Founder), Swaine Swoopstikes (Potions Master, Professor and Entomologist), Wilhelmina Wilkes (DADA Instructor and Head of Slytherin)_
> 
> **_Various Others_ **   
>  _Hunter Hutchinson 4S (Imp), Annelise Burke 4S (Searing Sousaphone Soloist), Crankshaft (Harper's half-Kneazle)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**Mentioned:** _   
>  _Salazar Slytherin (Founder), Slinky (the Slytherins' chief house elf), Boadicea Waterhouse (turn of the century Portraitist), Portrait Dilys Derwent (Headmistress), Bartholomew 'Bart' Burke 5S (sallow), Marguerite Burke 1S (garrulous), Gilbert Gibbon 1S (grieving godson), Gisele Gibbon 4S (doting sister)_
> 
> **Previously:**  
>  065 Tuesday, seriously slimey Slytherin seventh years, Draco, Blaise, Gregory and Vince received Poste Serpentes from their families blaming them for Professor Snape's bonding to Granger. The Serpents left the boys out of commission, 083 and their Housemates proceeded to decide that... _measures_ should be taken against them.
> 
> Indeed. 
> 
> 082 Vince returned from the Infirmary, in terribly poor shape, only to encounter Kneazle fur in his bed. Suffering from an allergy attack, 084 he unwisely crashed in the common room.
> 
> 080 Theo discovered the letter Draco had received from his mother detailing what Professor Snape had reported to the inner circle as to the reasons for his bonding - apparently the seventh years had kidnapped a Muggle-born student and fed her a Lust Potion. Theo fears the worst and is having a breakdown. Daphne, trying to help, secretly used a Sleeping Charm on him, crafty witch that she is. Not. Nott?
> 
> 083 The girls agreed to withhold sex from the seventh years (which will prove a source of frustration to a few of them as well), to otherwise make the boys miserable (within reason), and to help the Professor with his Protection Vow by assisting him in looking after... Madam Snape's welfare. They're still trying to wrap their heads around that one. 
> 
> The first through sixth year boys regretfully decided they couldn't help with the Protection Vow, but they can defend the Head's wife against any slights (which mostly means keeping their own mouths shut), in the process perhaps suggesting they might do more. And they most definitely _could_ try to avenge the Head by hexing the ever living stuffing out of the seventh years. As Vince happened to be readily available that night, they put this to the test.
> 
> Ah, but - priorities! - they're agreed, it shouldn't interfere with the Quidditch match. Sadly, most of the girls haven't come to the same conclusion. Millie plans to work on that.  
>   
> And that's my first attempt at a 'previously', hope that helps. (Credit where it's due, hat tip to **Toblass** for the first suggestion to include it. Ta. :-))  
> 

Blaise is surprised to find he's in decent shape, all considered, and wakes without a great deal of pain. His fitness regimen undoubtedly helps; good condition shouldn't be underestimated. Not that he'd put himself through it if it weren't necessary for Quidditch. Well, and to keep his figure. Probably more the latter than the former on consideration. (Vince instantly comes to mind as a cautionary tale of what one might expect from a less... conscientious orientation...) Truthfully - and Blaise, Theo and Draco all quietly suspect this is the case - Blaise's mother doesn't put _nearly_ the same intent behind her Poste Serpentes as the others' families do. 

Merlin knows, Draco's Aunt Bellatrix is in a class of her own. 

The Keeper stretches; he can still feel the Serpent's sting in his bones. As usual, he's awake before the windows have even admitted light to their room - although a Tempus confirms only just. He probably has habit to thank for that; he'd given himself the morning off from his exercise schedule, in light of the Serpent, and hadn't set his Tempus. Merlin does he ever feel knackered. Still, he supposes he doesn't really have anything to complain about. That may well be the case, _comparatively speaking_ , but as he climbs out of bed, he can't quite suppress a groan. Then again, he's not overly bothered with doing so as he assumes the others won't be up yet to overhear it. 

He has no one here to impress.  
  


It's a toss up if his concern stems from the fact these boys are ostensibly his friends, or they represent the majority of the Quidditch team, but after last night's Serpents, Blaise decides to make a round of the room and take stock of the others. The sconces light at his command as his Self-Sizing Silken Slipshoes slide cozily around his feet and then he grabs his emerald green and silver brocade dressing gown, an absurdly ostentatious affair that would probably look ridiculous on anyone but Blaise or Draco. And even Malfoy might find it a challenge to carry it off. 

Draco, the first stop for a number of reasons, is still stretched out in bed from the night before, apparently lost to the world. A gentle shake, atypically, yields no response. Over the past few years, Draco has become a _very_ light sleeper. Blaise tries not to think about why. More aggressive shaking also fails to do the trick, and Blaise begins to become uneasy. He moves on to Theo next, generally a good wizard to turn to when a problem needs sorting, certainly _resourceful_ (his father's influence no doubt), thinking the boy might be able to help rouse Draco. 

Inexplicably Theo, who _hadn't_ had a Serpent yesterday, seems to be in even worse shape than Draco. Who had had _three_. Theo's tossing and turning and completely non-responsive. Blaise finds that hard to comprehend, and having had a Serpent of his own (even if it _was_ a weaker one) won't be able to drum up too much understanding for his Housemate. Next he discovers that Vince has mysteriously gone missing. Blaise wonders if perhaps he'd stayed in the Infirmary overnight. And finally he turns to Gregory for his first success of the morning. It was about time. The boy actually wakes upon shaking, just as the weak light from the windows begins to filter into their room. 

Blaise gives the Beater a quick rundown, explaining the others' conditions as Gregory in turn tries to stretch his way through the residual Serpent pains. He isn't able to stifle a groan either, but Blaise takes advantage of Gregory's ignorance of his own infirmity to smirk at him in a rather superior fashion. It raises just the faintest hint of pink on the boy's cheeks. Blaise has always been grateful for his own dark complexion that hides his blushes fairly well; he's never had to suffer the teasing Gregory has. But then Gregory wouldn't have to suffer them as much either were he to get that response better under control. Still, he's better than Daphne. 

But then most are. 

As he talks, Blaise returns to Draco's bed, pulls back the curtain once more, and in the absence of better ideas, this time he hits the Seeker with an Rennervate. It doesn't come off quite as planned. 

Draco's shriek is enough to freeze the other boys' blood in their veins. 

"Merlin, Blaise," Gregory shakes his head. 

The Spell was good, his intent solid, but Draco was very poorly. He's conscious now, but just barely. He lies there groaning, barely any more responsive than Theo. Blaise still can't really rouse him. 

"Draco. Draco? Come on, Malfoy. Draco!"

"Blaise..." Gregory tries objecting. 

"Shift yourself, Malfoy! Move your bloody arse!"

"It's no use, mate. Give it a rest," Gregory tells him between groans - both his and Draco's, it's an unusual duet - still struggling to get upright. But he's got a good constitution, he trains hard and long, and ultimately he'll shake a worse Serpent's bite off more quickly than Blaise. 

He just needs a moment. 

Once Gregory has finally made it to his feet, Blaise has calmed enough to suggest, "We should probably go ask the portraits if they know where Vince is, and we're going to need some help with Draco and Theo." Gregory agrees, although he'd had no more compassion for Theo's state than Blaise had for similar reasons. Still, it doesn't change the facts. They are the two worst equipped in their suite to handle the problem. Draco and Theo are always the ones to turn to. And even Vince is more likely to have something... restorative in his trunk. 

No, they need help. Gregory slides into his slippers, neither silken nor self-sizing, and is still wrapping his robe around himself as he follows Blaise from the room. 

"Only I have the feeling the others aren't going to want to be of much assistance," Blaise clarifies his assessment of their position. 

"You don't honestly think they'd refuse to help us, do you?" Gregory is having a hard time picturing that. The others wouldn't punish them if it were to the House's detriment, would they? They've got a match coming up soon. Against the _Moggies_ even. If that weren't enough to get the others onside, then _nothing_ would be. 

He's right about that. 

"After what the Serpents hissed? I most definitely do. At least for the near future." Blaise has a far better understanding of his fellow Housemates and their interpersonal dynamics than most. 

"So who do we ask for help?"

"We _need_ the girls." He's hoping Pansy's affection for him and Draco will be sufficient that she'll still help. But he wouldn't bank on it. "The question is whether..."

They've reached the common room, and Gregory was looking at Blaise as he spoke and initially misses the sight that had stopped the Keeper in his tracks. Confused, he turns his head, following his teammate's gaze and then finds himself similarly dumbfounded. 

Well, they won't need to trouble the portraits.  
  


They've _found_ Vince. 

At least, he _thinks_ that's Vince.  
  


Merlin's hairy blue ball sack.  
  


There, groaning softly on the couch before them lies the other Beater, in a pronounced puddle of drool. Gregory may be concentrating on that, because it is frankly the _only_ thing about the picture before him that makes any sense. 

Vince looks like an _Inferi_. 

An _exhausted_ Inferi.  
  


_With wings_.  
  


The wings probably deserve first mention. Not the least because Gregory has never seen them before. Sparkly, glittering, _giant_ , bright, bright, _bright_ purple _fairy wings_. Merlin. No, no that's definitely new. He hasn't even _heard_ of it. And it seems the sort of thing you'd be likely to hear about, after all, doesn't it?

Through the rips in Vince's shirt (he'd apparently slept in yesterday's clothes), Gregory assumes he has the wings to thank for at least some of those tears, he can see something has gone very wrong with Vince's back. He keeps groaning in time with his wings' flapping, and Gregory is horrified to note that his _mouth_ is stitched closed. Not that it had stopped the drool, mind... But if the look on what he can see of Vince's face is anything to go by, he'd probably be screaming if it weren't for that. 

His hair is Snotter green, as they've come to call it. It hadn't looked good on Snotter; it looks worse on Vince. Something seems wrong with his hands, his nails are the colour of pitch, and Gregory sort of hopes it's just cosmetic. But at least one of the girls will probably know how to sort those. If they're willing. And hadn't _caused_ it. Vince's ears are fluttering about as much as the wings, Gregory isn't at all sure what Jinx does that, and his nose... Well, it doesn't look good. No, it looks... it looks _huge_. And bright red. Which clashes with his wings. The result of Kneazle fur again, no doubt. To top it off, Vince is strewn with bits of bloodied bandages and covered in small cuts and numerous scrapes and knots from tip to tail, although the bleeding at least seems to have stopped... 

And he just lies there, pancaked to the couch. 

Which seems more than odd. He groans louder, more frantically, as the boys approach, moaning more than Myrtle.  
  


Blaise has a sinking feeling this is in response to the Serpents, it's not like he and his Housemates haven't kipped in the common room before, especially after an evening with a good vintage. The jinxing has _never_ been this bad. Not even close. He's beginning to suspect they'll be in for trouble for some time to come. 

He turns to Gregory, too mortified as the repercussions of their situation sink in to be supercilious, "You were wondering if the others would refuse to _help_ us?" He swallows nervously, taking it in. "We'll be extremely lucky if that's the extent of it."

Blaise may have some admittedly questionable morals. As his mother, whom he holds in high esteem, was the only parental constant in his life and remains one of the wizarding world's most notorious - _alleged_ \- poisoners, that shouldn't come as much of a surprise. But he _is_ an exceptionally bright boy, and _isn't_ usually slow on the uptake. To be fair, he hasn't had much of a chance to reflect on the news the Serpents delivered before his had essentially put him out of commission last night.

He's catching up quickly. 

He hadn't really bothered to think too much about what a bonding - with a Muggle-born at that - what that would mean for Professor Snape. Fair enough. Few had. Hexing the Ravenclaws and Macmillan yesterday, that had been a simple matter of House pride and having Theo's back. Fine, and a spot of fun, naturally. But now... Now he thinks he's realised what his Housemates have decided the likely result of such a bond is. 

And what they've decided to do about it.  
  


In the vernacular, he and the other seventh year boys are _fucked_. 

But probably not in their preferred fashions. And certainly not if the Slytherin women have anything to say about it...

* * *

  


It doesn't take them long to determine that Vince is _very_ thoroughly stuck to couch. In some bits it's just his clothes, that's probably easily sorted, but in others it's very clearly his skin attached. Which _can't_ be good. When none of their Countercharms work to free him (the clear advantage of Harper having employed a _very_ rare Charm), the only solution they can currently think to offer is a Diffindo. _So_ strangely, just at the very _suggestion_ the Beater practically begins to cry. That suits the others well enough, not that they'd admit it. Frankly, neither Gregory nor Blaise were all that eager to try; Merlin, if they hit the couch by mistake... 

They _really_ don't relish the thought of having to explain any potential damage to the Head. They wouldn't on a _normal_ day. But in light of what the Serpents reported... No, they intend to keep the lowest imaginable profiles. _Possibly_ for the rest of their lives. _Certainly_ for the remainder of their school careers. 

For his part, after what Vince had been through with Alberta, Aaron and Sheldon last night, he has no desire to be on the receiving end of a Diffindo _ever_ again. Not that Bartholomew's unusual - and rather cruel, but then the Burkes have a... colourful history - Silencing Charm permits him to say as much. Still, his whimperings do rather get his point across. 

Blaise at least remembers the 'Reducio Proboscis' to help sort his nose, but the squeal of pain Vince emits in accompaniment would seem to indicate it had hurt like blazes. An Icing Charm might have helped had he thought of it. That makes roughly _one_ , disregarding the residual pain, of nearly a _dozen_ problems they can readily identify that they still need to sort, just with Vince _alone_. This isn't going to go well. 

"We need help, mate," Gregory tells Blaise softly as he watches the tears leak from Vince's eyes. "Let's go get the girls?"

"Oh, that's a _cracking_ idea, Gregory, I'm just worried about the execution," Blaise sighs in frustration. He runs a hand through his close-cropped curls and sighs again, collecting himself somewhat. "Erring on the side of caution, we probably shouldn't be the ones asking the girls to lend us a hand. I think we should appeal to Harper. He's a teammate, he'll understand - better than most - that we need to get Draco and Vince back on the pitch. If _he_ asks the girls then maybe..." Blaise shrugs. He hasn't got anything better to offer at the moment. And wouldn't he be surprised to know the nature of the discussion Harper had led just last night...

Gregory agrees, he trusts Blaise's judgment, although he's beginning to fret about what it might mean if Blaise isn't just being overly paranoid. "You get Harper then?" Both know Blaise is the better choice if they need to blag a favour off of someone. "I'll try to do what I can here. Maybe get him talking again." Vince squeals at the very notion, he's not wrong, but the other two do their best to ignore him. That's a lot easier when all he can do is make muffled noises. 

Blaise lowers his voice, there are portraits about after all, and one never knows when they're watching. "We're probably going to need something to get Draco moving. And it would be smart to do that before we have too many witnesses. Ask him if he has anything in that trunk of his that could help."

Gregory nods and Blaise leaves him to it, heading for the sixth years' room.

* * *

  


Blaise's point about requiring a potion from Vince settles the matter. Gregory needs to get him speaking before the others arrive on the scene. Unfortunately, he's not the most creative of Snakes. 

"Hold still," he starts, it's met by a number of snorts from the portraits - ranging from amused to contemptuous, depending on the source - and another indignant squeal from Vince, who is very much _incapable_ of moving, thanks ever so. "Right, sorry, it's just... I'm going to try a Diffindo to undo the stitches on your mouth..." That's met with more openly panicked squealing, not that it isn't perfectly understandable, and one of the portraits - Headmaster Black is the usual suspect - whispering that the Goyle boy isn't exactly the sharpest Diffindo himself. 

"I don't suppose you saw who did this?" He asks of the portraits in general and Black in specific, fixing him with a significant look. He can't imagine why they wouldn't have cried out and woken Vince. 

"I'm afraid it was quite dark," Black evades, truthfully enough, none of the others pipe up, and Gregory gets the feeling they won't just have to worry about their Housemates' responses to the Serpents. But then, he can't change that, and the portraits are rarely all that useful. See the case in point...

Gregory lifts his wand, and disproving that last thought, Salazar finally calls out; there are limits to what he can take, the inevitable blood bath this should cause would clearly be _it_. "You, boy." Both boys' eyes tick to him, he sighs and gets more specific. " _Goyle_ ," he drawls in poor humour. "If he didn't want you using the Diffindo on his _clothes_ , do you really feel using it on his _face_ is the best choice?"

Gregory just blinks. They're used to the portraits hanging there, and occasionally one or the other chimes in, usually to point out when students are out of...

"And just _what_ , Mister Goyle, are you _wearing_?" Another of the portraits speaks up. Ah, naturally. Professor Swoopstikes, the wizard who had taught Professors Slughorn and Dumblebore Potions in his day. Sluggy had had tales galore. 

... uniform. 

"Classes haven't started yet, Professor," Gregory answers patiently, fairly unconcerned, as he kneels next to Vince to get a closer look. This isn't the first time this particular portrait has jumped the wand. They'll reassure him of the time, and nothing will come of it. 

"They haven't even had breakfast, Swoopstikes," Salazar tries to reason with the man. 

"Merlin's beard, Swaine, _curfew_ is still on. He can wear whatever he bloody well pleases." Phineas complains to the wizard next to him in the group portrait. Swaine Swoopstikes' portrait is notorious for having a wretched sense of time. Strangely, the man himself _didn't_ \- for a Potions Master, that could have proven disastrous - and he was generally known for being obsessively punctual. He _had_ , however, kept his portraitist waiting on several occasions when he was meant to sit for her, while he was covertly called in by the Ministry to assist with the strictly classified work on a cure for the highly lethal Lethargic Lurgy. A rather frustrated Mistress Waterhouse, naturally unaware of the circumstances, had poured that perceived quality into his painting. 

Somewhat ironically, the fact they were too late in developing just that cure had led to the deaths of quite a number of the people who had sat for the portraits in Hogwarts. 

"Although I can't imagine anyone choosing to wear _that_ robe of his own accord..." Phineas continues needling. 

"Or _her_ own accord," erstwhile DADA instructor Wilhelmina Wilkes objects from across their wizarding chess table. 

"Please. No witch would touch it," Phineas counters as he moves his knight. 

"You don't think he's _Imperiused_?" Swoopstikes sounds scandalised. "We'd have to report _that_."

"Unless Imperiused," Wilhelmina corrects Phineas, sacrificing a pawn. 

"Lost a wager, more like." Salazar sounds sure. 

"Touché," Phineas grins at the witch as he moves a piece to claim the sacrificial pawn, which falls with a squeal to rival Crabbe's. 

"He's _not_ Imperiused," she assures old Swoopstikes calmly. 

Even after all this time - he's been dead for nearly three quarters of a century now - Phineas still finds their portraits odd. He'd known both of them during their lifetimes, studied under each, and worked alongside them for _years_. In Swaine's case, _decades_. As with most portraits, they aren't but superficial representations of the people they once were, and that can prove quite saddening when he spends any length of time with them. It's one of the reasons he tends to spend most of his time in the Headmaster's office, where the portraits are a great deal more... themselves. 

But something he continues to find disconcerting, even after all this time, are the differences between the portraits and the people he knew. Swaine's addition to the group portrait had very obviously been done rather late in his lifetime, and it was a little sad to see what had been captured of him. But then Boadicea had never enjoyed Potions, and that may have coloured her painting every bit as much as the Alizarin Crimson and Phthalo Green.

Wilhelmina, by marked contrast, had been captured in all her glory (she was only forty-two at the time of her death, after all), possibly even more radiant than she'd been when he'd known her. Only a dozen years their senior, she'd been their young Head of House and DADA Professor when he and Boadicea were students, and later became his close friend when he first began working at the school. Boadicea's fondness for the witch really shines through in the painting. 

This painted rendition of Wilhelmina probably couldn't demonstrate a single Spell she hasn't learnt from watching the students in the dungeons, the portrait hadn't been primed and she hadn't retained her knowledge, but Boadicea had fully recognised - and clearly _valued_ \- Wil's intelligence and vibrant personality and it _showed_. She'd been painted at the chess board and her portrait was an absolutely _deadly_ threat at the game (more so than Dilys even), and just as astute as ever. It reminds Phineas, fondly, of all the hours he'd spent with the witch in just such a pursuit. 

Swaine's other portrait (depicting him with his vast insect collection) hangs in the Tracery Hall, beside a painting of wizards watching a Quidditch match. Those wizards, in turn, have portraits scattered throughout the castle. Inserting Swaine into the common room's group portrait was one of the last jobs Phineas had commissioned as part of his continued efforts to widen the Slytherin portrait coalition's net, increasing speed and coverage. It hadn't hurt when selecting old Swoopstikes for the position that Phineas had always quietly thought he'd outlive the man. Hadn't _he_ been surprised when that addition meant the group portrait had to be held back for _six years_ after Phineas' death until Swaine, too, had passed. But then there are few certainties in life.  
  


Gregory ignores the portraits. Or tries to. He's having mixed success. But this is more along the lines of what he's used to. Usually they only speak up to complain about uniform infractions or occasional ill behaviour, to natter at one another or to tell tall tales, but they very rarely _critique your work_... That seems a little... rude. It's not like _they_ can work magic themselves, the old sods... But Vince is grunting enthusiastically, presumably in agreement, and it gives Gregory pause. "Well, what would you suggest?" He asks Salazar Slytherin's portrait. 

Salazar mutters something about _Arithmancy ruining the curriculum_ , and _what are they teaching the children these days_ ; it's such a common refrain, it was put to music three centuries ago and has more recently become a drinking game for the senior classmen. Salazar's objections might have the remotest bearing had Gregory ever sat for a single hour of Arithmancy, but no, no he most certainly hasn't. Still, the changes to the curriculum last century had generally been far from good as any of a number of portraits and a fair few members of staff would happily attest. 

And regularly do. 

Headmaster Black, who'd been perfectly willing to watch the scene play out - boredom is _such_ a curse - now decides to lend a more constructive hand. So to speak. It helps, of course, _significantly_ , that he doesn't believe that he's particularly _helping_ the boys by doing so. Oddly, after the things he'd learnt yesterday evening, he's not overly willing to do so. "Transfiguring something into a knife and trying to cut the stitches by hand is far better idea." Merlin knows, Severus would agree. "Assuming you have even rudimentary capabilities wielding cutlery." 

Gregory doesn't even blink at the slight. Several of the other portraits chime in their agreement, which gets the point across if the single voice hadn't. He hasn't had a Transfiguration class in a year and a half, and he's rusty. Frankly, he'd never been all that good at it to begin with, which is why he hadn't continued the course past his O.W.L. But he picks up one of the Quidditch Monthly magazines that can usually be found in the common room and after a few tries has a sort of blobby shaped thing with an edge in his hand. Coincidentally, it bears more resemblance to a caveman's tool than a knife, but it will probably serve. 

It also isn't likely to get any better. 

While he undoubtably cuts his friend less often than he would have with a Diffindo, the going is far from smooth... Or blood-free. Or silent. 

Even some of the portraits cringe.

* * *

  


Blaise weighs how to... finesse Harper. Briefly he considers just offering him money - everyone knows he needs it, it's a poorly kept secret - but there's probably no good way to do it in this instance without insulting him to the point of him becoming thoroughly uncooperative in the process. Blaise is rather banking on their being teammates to reach him, and the girls being better disposed towards the sixth year. If Vince's frankly shocking state is anything to go by, the seventh years aren't exactly popular at just the moment, or at least the male half. With some luck, the girls might be more likely to respond to a request for aid for them coming from Harper than from Blaise, and isn't _that_ an unexpected turn of events. He can't believe it's come to this... 

Sheldon Shafiq is the sixth years' charmer, of course, which might make him the logical choice, but as a reserve teammate, he may actually have an interest in keeping the other boys out of commission. No, no Harper is clearly their best bet. And judging by the way he looks out for Hunter, he has reasonably well developed caretaking instincts, too. At least, Blaise sincerely hopes so.  
  


Harper is on the floor, still in his pyjamas, doing push ups when Blaise enters, Aaron Avery having answered Blaise's knock on his way to the showers. The fact he just continues on to the bathroom without sparing a greeting for Blaise is probably a bad sign. 

Blaise takes a seat on Harper's bed, still trying to think how best to attack this, and for his part Harper doesn't stop his morning callisthenics. Crankshaft, Harper's usually all too affectionate ginger half-Kneazle, picks himself up lazily and rather demonstratively moves further down the bed away from Blaise. He's beginning to feel like a persona non grata. But surely the _feline_ wouldn't be in on it, would he?

"We weren't supposed to meet to train this morning, were we?" Harper asks the older boy between controlled breathing exercises. "I figured with your Serpent last night..."

That earns him a, "For Merlin's sake, Harper, be quiet..." and a protracted whine from behind the curtains of Torsten Touchstone's bed, where the boy is trying, with moderate success, to hide under his pillow from the light. 

"You need to get a wriggle on anyway, Torsten," Blaise informs him, still reasonably confident in his superior standing, if only because he's more senior. But the silence that meets that has him wondering a little more... Still, the other boys are already in the showers, and bowing to common sense, Torsten reluctantly slumps off to join them. 

"No, we hadn't made arrangements, you're right." Blaise reclines a little archly. "And you're quite right about why, too," he chuckles, but it lacks mirth, and he's making too much of a point of agreeing with Harper, who becomes instantly wary. "Speaking of..." Blaise is just the _model_ of insouciance. "We could use your help. We've got a couple of men down, and considering we already missed practice yesterday and in light of the upcoming match... I simply don't think we can afford to miss out again today."

They've got a week and a half to practice, which makes the match a far less critical concern than implied. Harper also doesn't miss that Blaise was very quick to appeal to the fundamental desire to _annihilate_ the Moggies that pretty much every Snake has nursed since the infamous House Cup Theft of '92. No, for _Blaise's_ standards, that was a pretty rubbish ploy. 

Still, he's not altogether _wrong_. 

Harper finishes his set and pulls himself upright. "What's up?" He'll allow the Keeper to explain the situation before he commits. It proves a real challenge not to laugh when Blaise describes Vince's condition; it sounds even better than expected. And when the seventh year finishes, Harper still has questions, "So what happened to Theo?" 

"I haven't an inkling, I'm sure. I was... indisposed when whatever it was took place. I couldn't say." He doesn't sound terribly concerned; ultimately, the fact he'd had a Serpent and Theo hadn't is making that more difficult than it would normally be for the already relatively self-absorbed boy. That lack of empathy, however, sits poorly with Harper. Not that it shows. 

"And what would you like me to do?" Blaise explains that he'd like him to fetch the seventh year girls. The 'why' goes without saying. Harper has to suppress his grin at that again. Say what you will about Blaise, he's not stupid. He is, however, rather vain, and Harper is quite sure having to admit _Harper_ has better chances must be grating. 

Sheldon comes out of the bathroom in his towel and gives the two boys a look. Harper can imagine why. But they _had_ agreed to see to it that nothing would interfere with the boys' ability to play... Still, his roommates have something of a schedule of their own, and Sheldon's return calls the time to mind. Harper casts a Tempus to check. "There's no point, Blaise. Curfew is still in effect. They _can't_ come help you." 

"Even if they wanted to," Sheldon grumbles to himself, but Blaise picks it up anyway. He'd been right. Things are going to get ugly. 

"By the time you explain it to them and have talked them round," personally Blaise thinks the latter will take Harper a good deal more time than the explanations, "it _won't_ be any more."

"I'm going to be late for breakfast." It's matter-of-fact, and not mulish. An opening move. 

And _this_ sounds like something Blaise knows how to solve. "I'll make it worth your while."

"Fine. I'll start with your robe." Sheldon snorts his amusement and Blaise quirks a brow in disbelief, but Harper is quite serious. "I'm not going over there just in my pyjamas." It's mostly just to mess the arrogant seventh year about. Naturally the robe is worth more - far more - than Blaise would normally offer in Galleons, anything else would be tacky (either as robes or bribes go), not that the expense matters to him (yet), and Harper could certainly use the ready money instead. And of course it would leave Blaise standing there in his pyjamas... But then that was probably the point. It's a clear demonstration of how much he _wants_ this. 

"You'll start and _end_ with my robe," Blaise tells him firmly. Harper nods; he'd expected at least some negotiation. Honestly, he hadn't expected the dressing gown. Without further discussion, Blaise unbelts the garment, removes it and hands it to Harper who throws it on over his pyjamas. 

Sheldon just laughs. "It doesn't suit you at all."

He's wrong. It suits him nicely, but it's not a very familiar look on the boy. The posh number is certainly a marked departure from the worn cotton pyjamas he's wearing beneath it. Harper just shrugs, unconcerned, and grabs his wand. 

"Just hurry, would you?" Blaise asks. 

"Hold your Thestrals. I'm practically on my way," Harper answers. He toes on his misshapen slippers - grotty things; at a guess, they were Transfigured from something - and the two leave together. As they cross the threshold to the room, a Spell ripples over them to remove any trace of Kneazle fur from their clothing. They're so accustomed to it, neither notices. That Spell and a magical barrier to ensure Crankshaft doesn't leave the suite and enter the shared areas make it possible for someone with Vince's allergies to live in the same dorms as a Kneazle. _Half_ -Kneazle. 

Both boys turn to the right, and Blaise accompanies Harper as far as the seventh years' room, then leaves to check on the others. Harper quickly continues on to the common room, full of purpose. 

That lasts until he catches sight of Vince. Then even the best intentions aren't enough to keep him from standing there laughing. This, _this_ is bloody _brilliant_.

* * *

  


The Slytherin dungeons are arranged quite differently to the other Houses. The perimeter shape seems fairly organic, an irregular outline - lined almost completely with windows to the Black Lake - with many rounded outcroppings, which suggests it follows the natural curve of the bedrock. That's wrong, of course; anyone who knew what Salazar was capable of would realise that instantly, but it never hurts to be underestimated by one's opposition. 

The ceilings are exceedingly high, vaulted, reminiscent of a Muggle cathedral, the height permitting the windows to be larger in scale, giving the Snakes an unparalleled view of the Lake and its denizens. Those windows, a good deal more prevalent than in the towers - but then _they_ have the clear advantage of being _above_ ground - are charmed to increase the intensity of the natural light without, so that it's every bit as bright in the dungeons (albeit somewhat green hued) as it is in the other Houses. But at _this_ time of day, at _this_ time of year, in _Scotland_... That's not very bright at all. 

The numerous serpentine sconces and silver hanging globe lanterns countering the gloom are charmed to light an hour before curfew lifts, and naturally are lit now. Anyone rising earlier needs to light their own or manage a Lumos. As that's a Firstie's Charm, it didn't seem to be asking too much. 

But what makes the dungeons unusual is far more than just a question of architecture, lighting, or the views from the windows, although they're all as distinctive as the green dragonhide chesterfields and wing chairs dotting the room. What makes the dungeons truly different is they're governed by _different rules_.  
  


The safety of his charges was of paramount importance to Salazar Slytherin, second only to their education (which all too often showed); they represented the future of their kind, after all, and the Muggles were unfortunately in the overwhelming majority. He also placed a great deal of stock in decorum. One step he took to try to ensure both of these things (and hadn't he been pleased with the efficiency) was a Charm on the witches' quarters that guaranteed _any_ sufficiently loud cry would be audible in _all_ the other girls' rooms. Should _one_ need help, the _others_ would instantly be aware and able to come to her aid. He was perfectly confident in their abilities to do so. 

And he was even _more_ confident that measure would soon teach them some restraint. Sure enough, the Slytherin witches quickly learn not to raise their voices excessively unless it actually _is_ an emergency. Their Housemates see to that. 

That might not have been one of his better ideas. 

Frankly it's been a bit of a plague. 

It helps to understand that just like all the other Founders, Salazar hadn't any experience with living with the numbers of children that now surrounded him from dawn to dusk. He found the... din very... confronting. _Unlike_ the others, he'd had fewer qualms about taking steps to _manage_ the situation. In light of how uncomfortable the noise made him, it borders on a wonder he hadn't Charmed the boys' dormitories similarly. Although the decision _not_ to may have coincided with the invention of Salazar's Migraine Powders. He couldn't recommend them enough...  
  


Something else he was convinced of was that only through regular practice could a witch or wizard become truly great. He designed his House to facilitate that. (And obviously that works along much the same lines as leading a horse to water.) The right side of the expansive common room is lined with a series of semi-private rooms; 'private', in as much as they have doors and are soundproofed, 'semi' given that they're faced on two sides with windows that run almost from floor to ceiling, towards the Black Lake and the common room, respectively. These rooms provide the young Snakes with their own library, a silent reading room (the Wizarding Chess and Exploding Snap games in the common room can become _quite_ lively), a music room and facilities for crafts. Admittedly thanks to the expanses of glass, the acoustics in the music room have never been quite right, but as Salazar himself hadn't played an instrument... _He_ hadn't noticed, and sadly no one had dared to point it out before he left the school. 

These rooms open to students two hours before curfew lifts, and close an hour after curfew begins. (The ejection should one overstay one's welcome is rather... brutal.) Salazar found the students generally far less likely to rise early for mischief. That assessment holds, unchallenged, to the present day. 

Across from the main fireplace, a raised dais in the middle of the right wall leads to the parallel staircases to the dormitories, which snake back far into the lake. Although both corridors are windowless - they share a common wall - the bedrooms leading off of them, too, benefit from the Charmed windows to the Lake. The oldest students are housed closest to the common room, the youngest furthest back. It was again meant to increase safety for the most vulnerable, while attempting to minimise the disturbance their disparate sleep requirements might cause, as the older students would presumably return later and leave earlier. (He may have been gravely mistaken about the second assumption, particularly on the weekends, when in pursuit of more sleep, many of the older teens would happily forego breakfast. And sometimes lunch, too.)

These staircases are bracketed by doors on either side to the two training rooms, one for physical exercise - considering the dearth of Muggle-raised in their House, it unsurprisingly more closely resembles a medieval torture chamber than a fitness studio, although there are a surprising number of commonalities - and the other for the students to test their magic. It's a true testament to the strength of Slytherin's Spells that after a millennium the glass walls of these rooms have never been breached. 

Of course, given the House is _underwater_ , that would have been _catastrophic_. 

The location may or may not have been one of his more enlightened inspirations. He'd argue that it had enabled him to create a more generous complex. More sensible, more _cautious_ heads might counter that it might not be worth the risk. Naturally he'd rejoin that his Spells are still holding, and were future Heads of House to renew the Charms... Of course it might have helped had he better documented them. 

Nevertheless, as part of his safety first - well, _second_ \- concept, Salazar had jars of Gillyweed stationed at regular intervals throughout the dungeons, and all window and door frames have Warming Charms integrated in the thresholds. In the event of a breach, the students should presumably be able to swim for safety - although preferably for the _exit_ and not through the Lake if no one has thought to renegotiate their truce with the Merpeople in the interim... (They have not.) Naturally he'd turn in his grave were he ever to realise that _swimming instruction_ had been struck from the curriculum along with so many other useful things last century. As with almost everything else during that horrible restructuring, it hadn't really been thought through. 

Given how poorly his portrait had responded to the notion of _Arithmancy_ , which seemed at least moderately defensible to most of them, the Snakes have been circumspect enough not to mention it. For nearly a _century and a quarter_ now. _That_ says something. (Primarily that they're tired of hearing him bang on about Arithmancy, and have no wish to provide him with another stanza.) 

The dais and the two practice rooms are the only areas outside the dorms exempted from the uniform requirements (and here as well, those were slightly more relaxed in the common areas than elsewhere, starting only when classes begin in the mornings). It seemed sensible to allow for more suitable clothing when students wished to take some exercise. As one must cross the dais in full view of the common room to reach those chambers, Salazar relied on public censure, peer pressure to assure the training costumes didn't become too outlandish. 

It's proven rather effective. 

In accordance with this, fairly merciless teasing of one's Housemates was effectively encouraged, and the sarcastic tone has prevailed until the present day. 

That also might not have been one of his better ideas.  
  


There were numerous other departures. For example, there were some marked differences between Godric Gryffindor's and Salazar Slytherin's approaches to separating the sexes. Where Godric had enchanted the girls' staircase in his House to ensure no boy could enter their dorms, Salazar, who was far-sighted, fairly shrewd, and fortunately a good deal less stiff ( _despite_ his fondness for decorum) than his portrait might lead one to believe, had had other ideas. 

But then he was often held to be a radical thinker. 

And frequently misunderstood. 

One of the things Salazar was absolutely sure about was that the morals of the day should at some point in the future come to be viewed as outdated. He considered it possible that they could become either more or less strict. Although he believed the latter more _probable_ , he wished to allow for either, and he gave quite some thought as to how the dorms could be Charmed to account for that. Finally he decided the best solution was the inverse of the one the other Founders preferred. 

As usual, that went over well. 

Undeterred and firmly convinced of the strength of his logic and resultant convictions, he forbade _girls_ access to the _boys_ dormitories after curfew. No exceptions. To his way of thinking, a single witch might be less... safe faced with such a number of armed wizards. He couldn't countenance the risks inherent in Godric's solution. 

But he _could_ imagine a time (not that he cared to envision it) when mores might change and perhaps a late night visit would be deemed... appropriate. He felt his solution provided for that. (Some might argue with that assessment, but it was more than most allowed.)

Up to two wizards are permitted access to the witches' dormitories at any one time after hours, if the witches are willing to receive them that is. He was of the opinion that the witches tended to be more conservative - perhaps having more... at stake, as it were - and placed the decision in _their_ hands. Two young blokes, faced with a dorm full of armed young women, all only a shout away, he felt that _their_ wishes would ultimately be respected in that regard. He wasn't wrong. 

Here again, unable to predict the future and not himself skilled at Divination, he decided to allow consensus, the _peers_ to be the judge of what could be considered appropriate. He was relying on the presence of other witches in the dorms to keep any assignations... safe, and at least reasonably... reserved. Temporally appropriate. It's not by coincidence that Privacy Charms are seldom taught to those under the age of majority, and of course they require a certain maturity to be cast effectively. Particularly in light of the Charm that trumpeted any loud noises into all the other bedroom suites, yes, he'd found the solution satisfactory.  
  


In another deviation to the common course, _both_ sexes can visit the other's dorms _before_ curfew. Anyone who has ever had to share living quarters with such a great number of people for so long should surely be able to understand the occasional need to withdraw to a quieter area, Salazar most certainly had, and he couldn't see putting either sex at a disadvantage in this regard. He was confident in the students' abilities to keep an eye on one another. He also assumed that would become more difficult when those eyes could reasonably be expected to be closed, the majority of students fast asleep. 

As such, after curfew the rules change. Any witch attempting to take the boys' stairs will find it magically rendered a serpentine slide of stone. Quite a variety of attempts have been made to climb the slide, witches naturally aren't prone to accepting defeat, and clearly not in _his_ House, but _should_ one reach the top, they'd encounter a barrier not unlike the one that keeps Kneazles from the common areas whenever an allergy sufferer resides in the House. 

Still, it had amused Salazar greatly in his time to watch the witches _try_. He valued creativity nearly as much as decorum. It's the cornerstone trait to being a _good_ Slytherin after all, seeing the beyond the obvious.

Sensible witches (of which there are many) simply attempt to take the stair rail in hand to see if the barrier is still in effect. It's simpler and a good deal more dignified. Salazar _had_ cared about that, although fully recognised that not everyone did, but he _did_ like to provide a more decorous option for those of like mind. 

Further, there are two notable restrictions: no witch may enter the boys' dorms _without_ her wand, and no wizard may enter the girls' wing _with_ his, day _or_ night. (And the Prefects have _yet_ to explain that to the Firsties without someone feeling the need to make a frightfully unoriginal pun. It's a source of never ending joy.) There might not be a way to permanently equalise the typical differences in physical strength between the genders, but a witch was every bit as powerful as a wizard with her wand in hand, and Salazar meant to see that it remained that way. 

There's a rack at the entry to girls' dormitories for the boys' wands. A Possession Line guarantees that no wand can be removed by anyone but the owner. It was a Charm of Salazar's own devising, _just_ for that purpose, and he was - rightly so - quite proud of it. It has an additional safety feature, any attempt to remove someone else's wand alerts the owner immediately. If the attempt is in _earnest_ , the would-be thief receives a proportionate shock. If it isn't, and it very rarely _is_ \- that's one lesson the Snakes have passed along conscientiously through the decades - then it can be used to signal the owner that someone else is waiting. 

That's particularly... useful when the available... billets are filled. And it proves highly... distracting to be continually summoned in such a fashion if one's trying to have a... cuddle.  
  


A variety of customs emerged as a result of all this. First and foremost, due to the lack of acceptance with which Salazar's ideas were greeted, in addition to their Oaths not to share information from the Poste Serpentes, all Slytherins swear to never reveal House secrets to members of other Houses. That particular Oath was deliberately crafted to permit contact with other schools, where perhaps their ideas might meet with more tolerance. 

And despite that, they usually keep to their own numbers.

* * *

  


Harper's relieved to see only one wand in the rack as he quickly slots his into place. That had been a slight worry, that he might not be able to even enter the dorms yet. But after yesterday's... events the chances had been good. And he could account for all the sixth and seventh year boys, after all. He grins a little at thought of the seventh years. 

At a guess, the wand belongs to Gilbert Gibbon, a Firstie whose godfather-cum-uncle had apparently died under mysterious circumstances last summer. There were rumours he'd been a Death Eater, and died because of it, neither of which has made things easier for the family. The Slytherins don't speak of it, naturally, but that certainly doesn't stop the rest of the school. The boy has had problems sleeping all term, and often seeks comfort from his sister Gisele, one of the fourth years. There'd been a few complaints. 

Harper knocks on the seventh year girls' door. Daphne, still in her nightdress and robe, answers. 

"Oh, hullo, Daphne." She greets him with a slight blush. Try as she might, she'll never be a good Snake. Pansy might take it for a sign of weakness, but Harper happens to think the bit of colour to her cheeks is rather becoming. Merlin knows, enough witches use Charms for that sort of thing. "I'm sorry to bother you so early, but I need to speak with you. _All_ of you," he clarifies when she looks confused. 

She turns to see if everyone is decent - Pansy quickly casts the Charms on her face and then nods, Tracey merely shrugs, adjusting her dressing gown, and Millie and Alberta are already in the showers - then Daphne opens the door wider. "Of course, Harper. Please come in."

"It's just the three of us at the moment, though," Tracey points out. Harper's inclined to think that leaves him with the three more useful amongst them, but is smart enough to keep that to himself. 

He's just begun explaining the situation - as Blaise had related it to him, that is; Slytherins _excel_ at Chinese Whispers, ever careful to mind the nuances - when Alberta comes out of the showers wearing a towel around her waist and nothing more. Harper's reflexes are good, and he quickly turns to face the wall, his hands up in a surrendering gesture, his gaze trained on the ceiling. "Sorry, Alberta," he does his best to disarm the situation. 

"Knock, would you, Hutchinson. And _you_ , a _Prefect_..." Alberta admonishes, never raising her voice and largely uncaring if he'd gotten a peek at her tits, but unwilling to let a chance to put a sixth year in his place pass, and a Prefect at that. No, she wouldn't let a chance like that slide. 

"He _did_ ," Daphne is quick to defend him, and as always, interested in being fair. 

Unimpressed, Alberta takes her towel off and throws it at him. Before it can hit the back of his head, although it's close enough he feels the draught, Daphne has a Protego up to shield him, and the wet fabric slides harmlessly to the ground. _That's_ a clear advantage to having taken Professor Snape's self defence class, the speed with which she casts it - _wandlessly_. 

And to _not_ being one of the boys. 

"Uh, thanks for that," he tells Daphne. "I _did_ knock, and Daphne let me in. I can't do more than that," he complains to Alberta, who, suddenly (and so surprisingly) now without other means of drying herself, is stuck applying Drying Charms before she can slip into her uniform. 

"So what did you want from us?" Pansy prompts. He tries again, keeping his tone as even as possible as he continues to make his case. Daphne and Tracey are alright. But he doesn't trust the Parkinsons' connections, and the Runcorns... they're a whole different matter. No, he has no interest in exposing himself to any risks for this. He simply presents the facts as he knows them and relays Blaise's request for aid. 

Which really doesn't make it all that much more effective than had Blaise done it himself. In fact, as it's lacking Zabini's (half-)Italian charm, or much of any in substitution, it's probably _less_ so. Blaise hadn't really considered that point, and it hadn't been in Harper's interests to mention it. 

No one says anything when Harper finishes, taking a moment to think it through. That's probably not a good sign for the seventh year boys. 

"Isn't that Blaise's robe?" Alberta tries to goad him further. As if it could be any other. But if it serves to buy them more time to think, all the better. She doesn't wait for an answer. "It looks ridiculous on you. In fact, so much so, I think I'll use it next time I encounter a Boggart."

"Because _that_ happens all the time...." Harper mutters. 

"And those _carpet slippers_!" She croons. Towards the end it borders more on a cackle. All she's missing is the wart... 

"So will you come help them?" He asks the others, not to be deterred. He makes rather a habit of ignoring Runcorn anyway. 

And still no one answers. 

"I could Transfigure them for you," Daphne finally speaks up, stalling a little more. She has her eye on Tracey and Pansy, both of whom seem to have a better grasp of the dangers of the current political situation. She knows Tracey is likely to do too little in an effort to avoid the wrong kind of attention, and Pansy is likely to go too far, be too cruel. At least as Daphne sees it. She tries to adjust her behaviour accordingly. But when _both_ of the other girls are in agreement, it's usually safe to just follow their lead. "I'm good with cloth. I think I could even match the robe..." 

Harper doesn't have a chance to answer, one way or the other, but as Daphne waves her wand, his slippers shift and then go sort of flat, crumbling around his feet until he's left standing, barefooted, on a pile of lint. He stands there blinking at that, _highly_ unexpected, Alberta snorts her laughter, and Daphne immediately protests, "I'm not as bad as all that! I'm _good_ at Transfiguration!" To which Tracey mutters something under her breath about 'Fwoopers' that Harper doesn't quite catch. But Runcorn should shut her yob; Daph's likely to get her N.E.W.T. in the course after all, Runcorn hadn't even managed her _O.W.L._

"What were they _originally_?" Daphne asks Harper a little plaintively, narrowing in on the source of the problem. 

"Oh, uh, I honestly don't remember at this point." Which he takes for a _much_ better answer than one of the rags from under their leaky kitchen sink at home, Transfigured with his father's wand on the sly last summer. 

Daphne suspects something along those lines - frankly, she assumes it's something either more embarrassing or incriminating - and doesn't push it. She just studies the results, does a few calculations in her head and then prepares to cast again. 

Well aware the girls are playing for time, Harper starts in on the Quidditch aspect, and Millie, now also returned from the showers (with _her_ towel wrapped more thoroughly about her) immediately chimes in her agreement. 

"He's right, we need to get those two back on the pitch. We are _not_ losing to the Moggies. Not for _any_ price." Which of course helps explain why _Harper_ is the new owner of Blaise's robe. 

Pansy gives her a warning look, they've spoke about this after all, but won't say anything in front of the boy, which Millie had sort of been relying on. She'd promised Hestia and Val she'd try, after all. She'll be damned if she lets her teammates down. Er, that is to say she _wouldn't dream of it_. Yes, _that_.

"So do you think you could come give us a hand then?" Harper prompts. 

The girls still seem hesitant, and then Daph coos, "There! I've got it." And he looks down and, Merlin, she _has_. His new slippers - babouches - are actually quite nice in the deep green of the robe with silver threads, matching the brocade, running through them in the form of glistening little snakes, and they're warm against the dungeon's slight chill. 

He's about to thank her when Tracey interrupts, seeming to have come to a decision, but Daphne caught his smile at the results and is more than satisfied. Honestly, anything _else_ probably would only have caused her to blush again, and then the girls would have teased her. She's pleased with her work. If she could have thought of a way of Transfiguring his slippers sooner without insulting him - she's been considering that since the beginning of term after all - she would have. And this way, she'd even had a nicer goal to work towards. Yes, that was all quite satisfactory. 

She might have to see if she can find a Charm to animate the snakes. That really _would be_ the crowning touch. And even Blaise's sodding Silly-Slippers hadn't done that...  
  


"I'm going to take a shower and get ready first and then I'll come over and see what I can do," Tracey informs him. Naturally, that doesn't mean she'll _do_ it. As the room is full of Slytherins, no one missed that fact (although it takes Millie a moment longer to register it), but it makes her look more cooperative and is the better _tactical_ move. Naturally. 

"Couldn't you come over _first_? I'd hate to waste any more time, and they'll still need to get ready. _If_ they'll even be able to go to class, that is." At best, Blaise is going to give him grief for this. 

"Harper, curfew is still on." She casts a Tempus to prove it. "It _isn't_ wasting time; it's being _efficient_. We can't get in there anyway. So if it's all the same to you, I'm going to finish getting ready." Tracey, as ever the quintessential ice queen (except for when she's vexed), turns and heads for the showers. A bit sheepishly, Daphne starts after her. 

"Daph," Harper begins, a little nervously, stealing a look over his shoulder in her direction, "Aren't _you_ going to come help?"

"Tracey has a point..." She replies, turning to face him apologetically. Harper looks somewhat disappointed, if not Daphne who _can_ he convince, because she's pretty much the softest - no, that's mean-spirited and really not fair - the _kindest_ of the lot... "But we'll be right over, I promise." And with that she trots off after Tracey towards the showers. 

He sighs. Belatedly, it occurs to him he should have emphasised Theo's condition, Daphne would have been sure to come over right away then. But then Blaise hadn't given him much information to work with there. And realistically, he thinks helping Theo is less likely to be a draw for the remaining witches. Normally that would be true, but he's forgetting that _unlike_ the others, Theo _hadn't_ been blamed for the Head's bonding. Daphne's made certain that the girls have that well in mind. It's a shame the boys haven't given that as much thought. 

Harper turns to face the other three girls in the room. Runcorn, now clothed, is doing her best to pretend he isn't there by this point. On balance, he secretly prefers that to her attention. He ignores her right back. Millie seems like she's willing to help. The fact she probably won't be _much of one_ is another matter. If Blaise couldn't sort a problem, _Millie_ certainly won't be able to do so. But, what she _can_ do is set an example. Her willingness to help might encourage someone _else_ to do so who's actually more capable. 

"Millie, you'll come right over?" 

"Sure, Harper, just as soon as I'm dressed and have my things for classes together," and then she does _exactly_ what he'd hoped for. She turns to Parkinson, "You'll come, too, won't you, Panse?" Pansy's eyes narrow, this really was sort of the point of last night's meeting, now wasn't it, but there's no stopping Millie. "We need your help to get them practiceworthy." 

Pansy sighs, her annoyance still audible in that slight sound. " _Fine_. Tell you what, Harper, I'll even skip my shower. I'll just perform a few Charms, get dressed, and be right with you."

"Thanks, I appreciate it." He manages to hide his surprise. He hadn't expected it, but on the other hand, once Pansy commits, she tends to do a thing properly. That's definitely one of her strengths. "I'll just, uh, go wait outside..." 

"Do that," Alberta agrees a bit snidely. 

The sixth year withdraws to the hallway, shutting the door behind him, and takes up position leaning against the wall. There are no portraits in the dormitory wings to criticise his posture after all. All in all, it probably went as well as it could have. Blaise should be pleased. 

Or he can get stuffed. 

Harper examines his slippers with some satisfaction as he stands there. It was a bigger, more _detailed_ Transfiguration than he could manage, he knows it - even with his own wand - which is why he hadn't bothered trying again since he got back to Hogwarts. And Harper hadn't quite wanted to go to Professor Snape with something as mundane as slippers like he does with his school robes at the start of each year. That felt like it might be pushing things. He'd hate to wear out his welcome, especially as Hunter will still need the Head's help after Harper has graduated. He probably should have just asked Ella or Daph if they'd mind doing them long ago, but he'd been too proud. And they'd probably been too polite, too _considerate_ to offer...  
  


Pansy checks a mirror to see if she needs to adjust the Charms on her face. She's gratified to see that her initial cast had been good enough not to need touching up. That's probably an advantage to the practice regular application provides. A few more Charms, Cleansing and a Convesto to get dressed, followed by another on her hair to increase the shine and bounce - she has an image to maintain - and in minutes she's ready to join Harper. 

"Millie, are you ready?"

"Sorry, Panse..." Millie frankly isn't as good with a wand, and having gotten dressed manually, still has to gather her things for the day. Somehow having worked with Vince in the Infirmary last night and then returned to the... distraction of the girls' meeting... She hadn't prepared her learning materials the night before as she prefers to. "Do you just want to go ahead, and I'll catch up?"

Pansy agrees and joins Harper in the hallway. "The others will follow," she tells him without stopping, leading him back to the common room at a brisk pace. Harper actually has to hurry to catch up, which strikes him as funny considering the respective lengths of their legs. Pansy doesn't notice. 

When they reach the dungeon, Harper doesn't even pause to retrieve his wand immediately, preferring to take in her reaction to Vince first. The sight sure is something, and even Pansy loses control over her normally schooled expression. 

Just the once.

* * *

  


Gregory, still on his knees beside Vince's couch, finishes sawing at the last of the stitches holding the Beater's mouth shut. There'd been some screams along the way, once he'd gotten Vince's mouth open enough so he could do so. They've subsided into whimpers both boys will pretend didn't happen, just like the tears that flow freely down his cheeks to puddle with the drool. Vince is too done in by the ordeal to even voice his thanks. Gregory takes it as given. 

There are a number of cuts on his face that would seem to indicate the portraits had had the right of it, a Diffindo would have been _devastating_ , and the remainder of the stitches - numerous rough, twisted black threads crisscrossed over both lips - are still very visible. They may need to be pulled if there isn't a Charm for it, but Gregory thought that was best left for someone with more Charms at their disposal. Or maybe Potions. 

Either way, obviously someone _else_. 

Mindful of the need to clear this before anyone else joins them, even if the circumstances aren't ideal, he leans forward and softly whispers to Vince, "Do you have any mental performance enhancers, maybe something like a Wit-Sharpening Potion or Scintillation Solution, that we could give to Draco? We need _something_. He's _really_ out of it." 

Vince groans, wondering how Draco could _possibly_ be worse off than he is, his three Serpents be hanged, but manages to answer, "I've got some strange kind of Wit. Just the one?" Gregory agrees and Vince gives him permission to get some - just the one - from his trunk. Gregory assumes, correctly, the formal phrasing is down to some kind of anti-theft protection on Vince's trunk and doesn't ask. It's hardly the time for it, and if it's for what he _thinks_ it's for, Vince wouldn't be forthcoming anyway. 

"He'll owe you," he assures his friend. Both are confident Draco won't take issue with that. He's generally proud and _scrupulous_ about meeting his obligations - no matter what his aunt seems to think (that would be far easier to understand if they knew what the witch actually _wanted_ from him) - he can easily meet any price with indifference, and Vince wouldn't dare ask anything unreasonable anyway. They're both quite sure this won't be an issue. 

Vince grunts into the couch (presumably in agreement), his cheek still stuck fast, before answering, "I was counting on it. _Something_ has to go right today." It's not even quarter to eight and he's already written the day off. He may have cause. His words are badly slurred, which makes perfect sense given he can't move half of his face properly. Couches can be _such_ a hindrance to one's range of motion after all. At least when one's magically glued to them anyway. 

Gregory can't help thinking Vince reminds him of his Gran after she had her stroke and before St. Mungo's righted her. Well, if his Gran had had purple, sparkly fairy wings. And black nails. And mouldy hair... Really, he looks nothing _at all_ like Gregory's Gran, he just sort of sounds like her. Well, like she used to. 

Which is when Pansy enters the room. "What on _earth_ happened here?"

They don't know where to begin.  
  


Harper's description hadn't done it justice. But then he deliberately hadn't mentioned the wings. In the first place, he doesn't know what the Charm is called and in the second, and probably far more crucial to that decision, he just didn't want to ruin the surprise. 

As she stands there, goggling, Gregory sort of helplessly tries to cover the ground Harper had, only his attempts have less direction and aplomb. Vince inserts an occasional word, but mostly just grunts, which only makes Gregory's narrative even more difficult to follow. Not that her question had been anything other than rhetorical. Only when the shock is no longer apparent on Pansy's face does Harper redirect his attention to fetching his wand. 

Fourth year Annelise Burke joins them now on the dais, her Searing Sousaphone in hand and eager to get at least a half an hour of practice in before breakfast. Or that had been the plan. She forgets her goal _completely_ at the sight of Vince. "Merlin..." There's a brief flare of recognition that no one notes when she spots the threads around his mouth. It's more likely to have been Bartholomew than their younger sister Marguerite, and both Burke girls, arriving at the same conclusion, will give him appraising nods when they later meet. Even the normally chatty Marguerite won't tell a soul what she suspects. 

Recovering, somewhat, Pansy crosses to the boys' stairs, Harper trailing as Gregory clumsily rabbits on, and reaches a hand towards the stair rail only to be repelled. It still isn't time yet. It's telling that she means to check on Draco first and wouldn't even spare Vince's situation a closer look until she's done so. Harper proceeds to stop there as well, meaning to wait with her. _Possibly_ to help ensure she doesn't change her mind. 

"You can go ahead," she tells him. "It's not as though I'm likely to get lost along the way." The sarcasm is evident, but Harper is used to it and not planning to move. 

"Oh! Wait a moment," Gregory calls out to his teammate, not having grasped that Harper was intent on staying anyway. "Would you mind keeping an eye on Vince for me? Just for a couple of minutes." 

Pansy can't help thinking it's hard _not_ to, she's having trouble averting her gaze. She does a Tempus to check how much longer she needs to wait and then sets an alarm so she'll know when to try the stairs again. 

Harper readily agrees to keep watch over Vince, and makes a mental note to fetch his camera the first chance he gets. This was better than the towel-wrapped version of Vince from last winter's shower debacle. By far. And he'd sort of been hoping to see everyone's responses to the wings anyway, so this suits him well enough. 

And as the others begin to trickle in, it can only get better. 

Gregory doesn't think to question his motives, he just bolts off to the seventh years' suite, eager to sort the Potion before Pansy or anyone else gets to the room. 

Meanwhile, Harper goes to sit by Vince, taking a seat on the floor with his back against the couch so he's watching the staircases and not the Beater. Naturally that betrays his real interest right there, but then Vince can speak up now if he needs anything, so there's little need to actually keep eyes on him. And really, there isn't much Harper can - or rather: _is willing to_ \- do. 

"Mr. Hutchinson, what are you wearing?" And for _this_ reason alone, they generally make an effort not to wake Swoopstikes too early in the morning. 

"It isn't time yet, Professor," he answers, unperturbed. 

"A far more tasteful dressing gown than Mr. Crabbe's, that's for certain," comes Headmaster Black's assessment. 

Harper silently agrees, quite pleased with himself, and returns to happily examining his slippers once more.

* * *

  


Blaise has made himself comfortable on Draco's bed, still trying to get through to his friend, when Gregory comes barging into their room. 

Theo sadly still lies neglected in his bed. Some of it is personal preference - Blaise is closer to Draco - some is still his annoyance that _Theo_ is presenting as a problem on _this_ of all mornings, some is simply not knowing what to do for him. But it makes a difference, however, a nontrivial one, that Draco is on the Quidditch team, and their captain to boot. None of that will change now that Gregory's returned for exactly the same reasons. It's more important to them to get Draco sorted. 

"Quick. We haven't got long. Pansy will be here soon," he calls to the Keeper as he runs for Vince's trunk. 

"Harper convinced her then?" He sounds surprised. "You were able to get Vince... talking?" He checks somewhat cautiously. Considering the personalities of the Crabbe family - perhaps not the sharpest, but certainly... _unforgiving_ \- raiding his trunk otherwise seems a _very_ poor idea - Merlin _knows_ what Charms guard it - and Blaise really doesn't need another problem on his hands. 

"I'm not stupid," Gregory answers, sensing Blaise's hesitation, as he paws through a small collection of phials. That statement would carry more weight if he didn't then have to turn to Blaise and ask, "What does Wit-Sharpening Potion look like? He hasn't labelled them." In as much as that might be a clever countermeasure against pilfering or detection, it makes sense. Given it's a Potion they learnt to brew in their fourth year... It doesn't shine a flattering light on Goyle. 

Blaise gets up and goes to join Gregory on the floor next to Vince's trunk. Proving he also isn't always the sharpest, Blaise reaches out a hand, intending to shift the phials to get a better look. Gregory grabs his wrist. "Don't. Just don't. I don't know what he has protecting it, and I don't want to find out the hard way. I've got his permission, just tell me what you want me to do." Apparently he and Blaise have similar suspicions about the trunk. They're reinforced, significantly, by the fact Vince just leaves it unlocked. 

"Assuming they haven't added too many things to change it," which is a pretty big assumption right there, "We're looking for a purple one. Sort of a luminescent, bright... purple..." he trails off and Gregory turns to the boy and laughs. 

"You mean like his _wings_?" 

Blaise might be blushing a little just now. He loves his complexion dearly. "Yes. Almost _exactly_ like his wings." He clears his throat, and tries to regain his footing. "Don't you recall? We had it fourth year?" 

Gregory roots about a bit and then pulls one forward, careful to leave it within the confines of the trunk. He twists it so Blaise can see. "I think I remember it. It's this one, isn't it?" Ironically, this version seems even more... sparkly than usual. Gregory has no intention of ever mentioning the coincidence to Vince. 

Only when Blaise nods does he remove it from the trunk. There's a ripple of... something across his hand. It doesn't feel... friendly. Still, his hand emerges unscathed, phial intact. His sigh of relief betrays that he hadn't been quite sure it would. "Here, get it into him. I've no idea how Pansy will feel about this, and I'm not eager to find that out either."

Blaise rather agrees. He props Draco up a little, unstoppers the phial, and prepares to pour it down his gullet. 

"Oh, wait! Draco. Draco!" The blond lifts one eyelid and tries to take Gregory in. It seems focus is an issue. "You'll owe Vince for that, yeah? Yeah? Malfoy??" Draco finally manages a nod, and Gregory turns to Blaise again, "Go ahead. Not sure if it makes a difference, but just the same..." Blaise nods his comprehension - the issue isn't the _debt_ , but _possession_ , potential Anti-Theft Charms - and pours the sludgy Potion into their friend's mouth. 

They don't have to wait long for a result. 

Draco turns a variety of colours, vibrant enough to outshine Vince's wings, his eyes seem to spin and then extrude briefly from his head before settling back in his skull. Finally resembling his usual self more closely than he has all morning, he looks at his friends and demands, "What the hell was _that_?" They tell him. "For the love of... Tell me it wasn't Baruffio's Brain Elixir!" They both shrug. They can't. Draco's hand shoots up to his nose and he begins feeling around. 

"Draco? What are you doing, mate?" Gregory sounds nervous. 

Half panicked, the Prefect turns to him and clutches his arm. "My brain isn't leaking out of my nose, is it?" For a brief moment the Beater fears they've gotten this terribly wrong. A little desperately he looks to Blaise. 

"No, it's alright," the Keeper reassures him. "If he can remember exotic potions and their effects, he should be fine."

"You mean the other stuff would actually _do_ that? Melt his _brain_? What on earth _for_?" 

"I doubt that was what they'd originally intended..." Draco manages a bit disdainfully, but it sounds rough, and he's still anxiously checking his nose. But it's the first sign he's _himself_ , and Gregory gives him a faint smile. 

"You owe Vince for that one, by the way." And _that's_ about the debt. 

Draco can't help thinking he owes Vince a _great deal_ of things, the seven story fall and associated limb breakage comes quickly to mind, three Serpents and possibly a couple of Crucios - although he's a little unsure how he allots the blame for those - but he nevertheless acknowledges the debt. Vince generally sells potions for Galleons or homework. Draco can easily provide either. 

Draco's colour is finally returning - _normalising_ \- and they're trying to help him out of bed as their door opens.

* * *

  


Harper's watch on the stairs is soon rewarded. Hunter happens to enter the common room with the other fourth year boys just then. It's typical for the Hutchinson boys that they automatically scan the room for each other whenever one of them does so. Hunter isn't clingy, but they're close, and Harper always keeps an eye out for his little brother. Admittedly it takes Hunter quite a while to stop gawping at Vince, and Harper enjoys just taking in his reaction. _So_ worth it. That's a barely suppressed giggle right there. 

Once Hunter looks around, he quickly meets Harper's gaze. At a sign from the sixth year - Harper makes a square bracket shape with his thumb and forefinger which he then twitches slightly as though pressing an invisible button, while gesturing towards Vince with his hand, and, really, it was all too _too_ obvious anyway - Hunter turns around and races back to Harper's room. He has to shoo Crankshaft from the lid of the trunk, but not without lovingly scratching his ears first - somehow the half-Kneazle always seems to know _exactly_ where to place himself to maximise the affection he's permanently seeking - and then digs through his brother's trunk until he finds the camera. Naturally, the blood wards don't present a problem for a close family member. 

He races straight back with only a, "Later, Crank," hastily thrown over his shoulder. Hunter, usually not _exactly_ the soul of subtlety, is even able to hand the camera off to the Prefect without attracting any attention. Of course, it's _extremely_ helpful that Vince himself provides such a distraction. Merlin. Taking a picture of this was practically an _imperative_. It was certainly sure to be lucrative. 

More and more students filter in the closer it comes to breakfast time, the reactions largely the same. "Merlin!" "Salazar's Satchel!" "Nimue's knees!" "Brilliant!" "Merlin's left nut!" "Bloody hell!" "Language." Pansy is standing right next to the stairs after all. Much milling about and whispering to one another ensues. 

They'll cleverly save their laughter until they're out of Vince's sight. A fact that becomes quite evident when they're able to leave and gales of laughter are audible from the corridor leading to the dungeon exit. 

For anyone watching their responses, not that anyone but Harper is, not with _Vince_ lying there, his wings _fwump fwump fwumping_ like that, it's noticeable that there's a healthy amount of pride visible on many of the boys' faces. The third years pink rather markedly, they may need to work on that, and Harper decides _that_ explains Vince's ears. He had rather wondered. It's always a bit hard with Charms to tell if it's something _new_ , like with the wings, or something gone _wrong_. Merlin, if you can remember what you did, that's how some of the best Jinxes come about. 

Pansy's Tempus chimes, and she takes the stairs to the boys' dorms. From his portrait, Salazar - the very picture, literally, of domineering dignity - grandiloquently announces to those assembled, "Curfew has ended. You may now leave for breakfast."

It's an interesting feat no one ever thinks to question, more's the pity. The portrait can't cast a Tempus and there are no clocks visible in the dungeons. One might be tempted to think the Founder's portrait has an uncanny sense of time. While his sense of time isn't bad - better than Swoopstikes' anyway, not that that says much - that assumption would be far from the mark. By longstanding arrangement, Slinky appears several times a day before Salazar's portrait frame on the grand staircase landing and acting as something like a living, breathing elven Tempus, he yells the time to Salazar whenever there's a significant event. As no one else can hear the house elf... It serves to add to the portrait's mystique. Or would if anyone stopped to think about it. 

As it's been that way since their very first day in the dorms, and they as a group - oddly - spend no time in other Houses, not a one of them does. 

They assume it's portrait magic. 

The very youngest students are quick to scarper. They'd have loved to hang about and watch, but they correctly interpret Crabbe's murderous glare. Unsurprisingly, there are more than a few hopeful looks in Harper's direction, as he snaps the pictures he knows will bring him even more than last year's shot of Vince as an oversized terrycloth Flobberworm. He expects he'll take a pounding for it, Vince's growl as the flash goes practically guarantees it, still it should be worth it. He'll Geminio the pictures and hand the seventh year the originals, he can even swear to it, and the Galleons should come rolling in from there. It should definitely help fill the family's coffers. And he's sure, Pomfrey can sort anything Vince can dish out. Plus he's kind of banking on Vince not taking him out of commission until they've played the Moggies, by which time the trog was liable to have forgotten the issue... 

Or in a pinch, maybe a Confunding would help.  
  


From the third years on up, a large number of the boys choose to stay to watch, more than a little curious how their Hexes will fair against any attempt to sort this. When the boys stay, so too do a number of their female counterparts, and a reasonably sized crowd is beginning to gather. 

Now that Pansy had come and Draco had his potion, Gregory left her and Blaise to it and returned to the common room to relieve Harper. There are enough onlookers stood about on their stairs that the Beater is forced to push his way through to get back to the couch. It's hardly a problem for someone of his size and physique, that's not the issue, but the rubbernecking annoys him, and he has a few choice words for some of the younger boys. He's a bit disconcerted when they don't seem particularly impressed by his bluster, parting only marginally to allow him past. 

They wouldn't have even done _that_ much, given a choice, but the Beater really _is_ strong. 

Oddly, Harper also doesn't seem to be in a rush to return to the others yet. The 'why' becomes a little obvious when moments later Daphne enters the room and positively ' _Oooooo!_ 's, not that anyone besides Hunter spares Harper any attention and notices, not with Vince flapping wings and ears on the couch and moaning in counterpoint. 

But Harper was _so_ right. 

She _loves_ the wings. 

He's quick with his camera and captures it, happy to have gotten a shot of that, too. It might be almost as good as the ones just of Vince. 

Only not as profitable. 

"Oh, they're _gorgeous_!" She cries, practically fluttering with excitement. _That's_ Daphne for you. "I _want some_!" She's _completely_ sincere. 

"For fuck's sake, Greengrass!" Comes Vince's predictable - if slurred - objection. Harper has to fight not to laugh. Hunter and a few of the younger students aren't nearly as successful. Merlin, even Tracey stops to stare, her trip to the boys' dorms momentarily forgotten. 

"Language," Harper's quick to rejoin. He _is_ a Prefect after all. 

"You're Crup meat, Hutchinson," comes the hissed reply. To be fair, with the desiccated skin of Vince's back, the wings are presumably far from fun for him. Additionally, they probably suit Daphne's aesthetic a good deal more than _his_. Unquestionably he'd never choose to walk around with the things on his back. 

Daphne, on the other hand, is a whole different story. 

Her next question practically confirms it. "Anyone know which Charm was used?" She looks hopefully around the room. Most of the boys present, anyone who isn't a seventh year anyway, know who would _know_ , but they're not about to land Sheldon in it, and everyone just shakes their heads. And really, the wings were a nice touch. That doesn't deserve to be punished. 

Vince will _never_ learn who cast that particular Charm.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More credit where it's due: 
> 
> Because it's an obscure enough reference not to be clear, the idea for **Professor Swoopstikes** comes from the Wizarding World of Harry Potter, where a portrait by that name depicts a former Hogwarts Potions Master and entomologist, and is hung near a Quidditch painting in the Tracery Hall. (That's what I had, and then I took it from there.)
> 
> ' **Harper** ' was canonically in Ginny's year (she thinks he's an idiot, but then she does that a lot). During the 1996–1997 school year he was Slytherin's reserve Seeker and played against Gryffindor when Draco bunked off. He needled Harry about Ron being a blood-traitor and nearly beat him to the Snitch, but was ultimately thrown by Harry taunting him that Draco paid Harper to play. (Which never made any sense to me, so I'm trying to give it context. Huzzah.) 
> 
> Other than that, **Boadicea Waterhouse** and **Wilhelmina Wilkes** are OCs, as are all the other males in Slytherin who aren't seventh years, occasionally using surnames from canon. (Wilkes, Avery, Shafiq, Burke)


	92. 11 12e Wednesday - ...and Dine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hermione and Severus, the Bloody Baron, Sunny, the Giant Squid_

_She blushes terrifically and leaps from the seat, leaving the blanket behind and hurrying past him with a, "I'll be right back..."_  
  


_Apparently they'll need to work on that. And he may need to work on a Notice-Me-Not after all._

Severus, currently undertaking a detailed study of the ceiling - no, no cracks to speak of - manages to bite back a sarcastic _'I can hardly wait'_ (although that had been another close call), but he simply isn't up to finding anything non-inflammatory to answer. Fortunately she's gone before that becomes too apparent. 

He takes advantage of her absence to slip into his own room and find a Hangover Helper, some Pain Relief and a phial of Touchstone's Tummy Toughening Tonic he would normally avoid for the name alone. But needs must, as Albus would say. And it's a bloody good thing Touchstone's Triple T settles one's stomach as the taste is enough to otherwise cause it to riot. He knows _exactly_ how he'd improve it were he ever to go into business for himself, starting with the ridiculous name. _Snape's Stomach Soother_... And he stops himself right there. Surely he has enough things tormenting him this morning. 

Next he takes the jar of Bezoars in hand and shakes one out to replenish the supply he'd... expended yesterday. After a moment's consideration he taps out another for the witch, just in case, and pockets it as well. After all, were there ever to be an issue, the Protection Vow would otherwise almost definitely force him to give her _his_. This seems... only prudent. And it's not as though it makes any discernible difference if he carries a Bezoar more or less in his extended pocket.  
  


Hermione, now dressed in a white version of another of those fitted blouses that make Severus uncomfortable (particularly when they have as many buttons undone as hers has - which is the clear advantage to the usual requirement for ties) and her uniform skirt she's Transfigured dark green, returns to the lounge to find neither Professor, elf nor their breakfast there yet. 

Possibly she'd been in a bit of a hurry. 

Mindful of the fact the Baron is probably waiting for her again this morning and how she'd unintentionally given him the slip yesterday, she goes to the door. She listens to the wards as the Professor had shown her, and certain the coast is clear, opens the door. The ghost is nowhere in sight, but she's come to recognise that doesn't mean he isn't _present_. 

A little uncertain of how to proceed, she decides the most straightforward approach is to call for him and, stepping into the hallway, she does. A moment later he fades silently into view beside her, highly puzzled at being hailed in this fashion. Before he can speak, she's cheerily greeting him, "Good morning, Baron," avoids enquiring if he's had a good night - she's not sure how he feels about that, Nick was often... tetchy - and then quickly explains she'll be eating in and didn't wish to leave him waiting for her. 

He floats there blinking. Beyond a doubt she's the single _oddest_ creature he's dealt with in decades, possibly longer. Odd, but apparently... considerate. Presumably that's... nice. 

He nods in reply, mulling it over. "Good morning, Madam. I'll return later to see you to class then?" 

"If you wouldn't mind? I'd certainly appreciate it," she answers with a smile, and he's again struck by the... yes, the oddness of it. People _don't_ smile at him. They may smile at the _news_ he brings - say, when he alerts the Slytherin Prefects to Estrays straying after hours, _especially_ then - but not at _him_. This is all very... strange. 

And then he recalls he'd had news for the Head. Focus isn't just an issue for Draco this morning. Of course, for the Baron, that's a far more... _pervasive_ problem. 

"You are breakfasting with the Head." It's whispered, as always, and sounds more like a statement than a question, but Hermione nods nevertheless. "Would you be so kind as to inform him the Slytherin Prefects didn't perform their rounds last night." Hermione has almost completely forgotten about rounds. She has to think, it'll have been the Slytherin seventh years' turn last night. 

Malfoy. 

Malfoy and Parkinson. 

The Baron, for his part, can well imagine why the current Malfoy _hadn't_ , he'd seen the three Serpents after all, but that doesn't account for Miss Parkinson. And here he'd been... eager to tell them of the Hufflepuffs he'd heard making plans to rendezvous after curfew. Well, perhaps not _eager_. But he'd certainly _planned_ to. That may not be quite the same thing. He'd been rather... satisfied with that bit of intelligence, and then no one went on rounds. It was all very... disappointing. 

It occurs to the ghost that he hadn't... appreciated that no one had informed him they wouldn't be on duty, and here the Head's bondmate, by stark contrast, is apparently making an effort to keep him apprised of her plans. He's trying to decide if this is somehow related to the fact she's an Estray. A _Moggie_ , as the kids today like to say. Or simply her nature. 

She's certainly... different. 

Hermione thanks him for the information, a little uneasily, she's not quite comfortable being drawn into what she assumes amounts to House disciplinary matters, but the Baron doesn't notice that as he's still rather preoccupied with his own thoughts. He bows and takes his leave, floating off down the corridor, his chains once again not rattling until he disappears from sight. 

Soon after, he rounds a corner, and with a _terrible_ din - there are limits to his self control, Madam Snape is now absent, and even ghosts require... diversion - startles the living daylights out of Mrs. Norris, who was apparently lurking by the Slytherins' Dungeon entrance, hoping to catch anyone jumping curfew. Her yowl creates still more racket which echoes... satisfactorily though the passageways. It's suitably... atmospheric. She'd have been better off in the Estrays' Tower anyway. They had meant to have early Quidditch practice today after all. That often holds more promise. 

For that inefficiency alone, the cat had almost deserved it. _Almost_.  
  


When Hermione passes back through the perception barrier to their chambers, closing the door behind her, she's a little surprised to discover the elf present and Professor back at his desk, apparently working on a scroll. The red throw has been folded tidily and returned to the bench seat to give him room to work (not that he feels it's enough). Sunny is bearing two trays, presumably under Stasis Charms, clearly suspended by magic and not the single knobby finger holding each of them, patiently waiting for the Professor to finish his work or for her to return. She's not sure which. Possibly both. 

In case she's the one holding things up, she quickly retakes her seat in front of the window, mumbling apologies at the elf, not quite daring to be so forward as to suggest the dining table (particularly as she'd effectively buried it under the mound of wedding presents). She can't help noticing the Professor hadn't taken a seat there after all, or even at the breakfast bar. The latter almost makes her laugh, she'd _thought_ when she first saw the thing that she couldn't picture him eating there. Those always struck her as mostly decorative anyway. And here he now sits, apparently preparing to eat at his desk, despite his other perfectly reasonable options. She suspects he can be stubborn that way.  
  


While he was waiting, Severus had reapplied his attention to Goyle's Care for Magical Creatures assignment which he's now finally Incendioed. (So strangely, in the witch's absence, he'd recollected the Incantation. He probably has the Hangover Helper to thank for that...). He'd easily recognised certain similarities with Crabbe's work from Monday - the boys have probably never had an original thought between them - that would lead all but the most obtuse, gullible or kind-hearted (all three of which unquestionably apply to Hagrid) to assume those two have been cribbing from one another, or more likely a third. With typically Slytherin efficiency, he'd decided there was little point in not getting extra mileage from having read the boys' homework and was considering how best to set Hagrid on them. 

The witch, now returned, is sitting there looking just the least bit smug, for some reason or another he can't begin to fathom, when Severus makes a note to himself to speak to Hagrid about some of Goyle's specific shortfallings in CMC. With his Selkies' Silken Signatures ink. The one that almost invariably summons the Squid. 

And does so now. 

Miss Granger practically _leaps_ from her seat - with a squeak - as the dark shadow passes mere inches behind her, accompanied by a very noticeable gurgling, swishing sound as the Squid swoops past. To be fair, it _can_ take some getting used to, as any Slytherin Firstie can attest (but wouldn't), but it's so marvellously... _satisfying_ , that Severus fully intends to do it again.

He'll just need to wait until she's settled and forgotten the Squid. 

He likes it; it's almost elegant. The ink summons the Squid, the Squid in turn makes her start. It's a bit like having a remote control for the witch, without the bothersome illegality of the Imperius. (He ignores the indignity of a Geas for self-evident reasons.)

Severus is far from obvious; Hermione certainly hasn't noticed his amusement, but then her pulse was busy racing and he's basically _the_ Slytherin after all. Sunny, however, has lived with him for a very long time. The elf has probably registered the wizard's enjoyment only too clearly and apparently decides enough is enough. With much enthusiastic chirruping, Sunny now bustles into action, taking things in hand and navigating the trays into position. 

"Mistress is enjoying her breakfast. Mistress is wanting anything else, Mistress is calling for Sunny," he's grinning ear to pointy ear and rocking back and forth on the balls of his little feet in barely restrained excitement. He knows full well he has her to thank for being permitted to serve breakfast this morning, which only improves her standing as far as he's concerned. 

Decidedly more stern, he turns to Severus, "Master of Potions is eating _now_ , _no more is working_." Said Master of Potions twitches a brow at the imperious elf, who sounds just a breath away from Banishing everything from the surface of his - shortened - desk. With a hint of amusement, Severus lays his quill down, and is immediately rewarded with more ebullient elven cheer. Somehow, he can't help thinking that doesn't seem all too incentivising. "Master is enjoying Sunny's meal. Master is wanting for anything, Master of Potions is calling Sunny, yes. Sunny is answering immediately."

The house elf floats Hermione's breakfast in front of her, the Professor's off to the side of his desk between them, so he's almost forced to face her to eat. Hermione finds herself automatically sliding a little further up the bench so that he now does so. Severus flinches minutely, recalling he'd Banished the Disillusioned couch legs not far from where she's now seated (and luckily, she'd stopped short of them), but evidently her goal had more to do with being able to maintain eye contact than some furniture legs she couldn't possibly know were there. But for a brief moment he wonders if the elf does, considering where he'd placed their trays. 

The Professor's, "Thank you, Sunny," finishes this time before the little creature disappears, but would seem to work to dismiss the elf. 

Hermione immediately notices the grapes on her tray - she hadn't requested any - and smiles. There is no conceivable way she'll be able to finish the plate in front of her, even if she hasn't been eating all that much the past few days. But the food smells absolutely _delicious_.  
  


Severus would prefer they attack their meals in silence, but Hermione isn't used to it. She doesn't last long - it might have been seconds; Severus hasn't even tried the first mouthful - before she feels the need to initiate conversation. Teasing a little, she prods, "What, no black pudding or haggis?"

It gets her a raised brow and eventually an answer. "I haven't gone native," he drawls. She's pretty sure she's seen him eat _both_ before and merely cocks an eyebrow at him. The slight quirk of his lip confirms his facetiousness. "You don't think this was enough?" He's beginning to wonder if she has a hollow leg. 

For _her_ , it certainly was, beyond any doubt. _He_ might be another matter. She's reasonably certain she knows _all_ that he had for dinner last night, and no, it wasn't _nearly_ enough. "You haven't had much to eat the past several days have you?" She asks. Luna would be so proud. Well, Hermione's paying it forward. 

Severus is about to protest when his traitorous stomach answers for him. It _growls_. It's a growl fit to rival anything any of Hagrid's wee beasties have on offer. It demands attention and _food_. Soonest. He blames the enticing scents. It might have been embarrassing, but she greets it with a warm laugh and an offer of more to eat.

"Would you like half of my sausages? I haven't touched them yet. Or one of my eggs?" And before he knows it she's standing in front of him and neatly piling still more food on his plate. Some of her bacon, vegetables and half the grapes (he does _not_ snort at that; well, not _loudly_ ) join the proffered rest. She's right, though. Now that his stomach is no longer upset, he's _famished_. 

Beaming, she does that a lot, she retreats to the window seat again and resumes eating. 

"What were you doing in the hallway?" He asks between bites. She likes that he manages to swallow first. She assumes he wouldn't be exactly flattered to hear it. 

She tells him she'd advised the Baron of her breakfast plans, which earns her another blink. Severus would sort of love to know what the ghost makes of her. He definitely owes the poor spectre something for his patience. He imagines the witch is providing their House ghost with quite the change of pace. 

A little hesitantly, she doesn't wish to be seen as shit-stirring, she passes along the Baron's report to Severus. Contrary to her expectations, he doesn't take it the wrong way. In fact, now that he isn't Occluding for all he's worth (that event - so oddly - seems to coincide with her having gotten dressed), he can feel her anxiety in doing so and is reasonably quick to reassure her. "You needn't worry, Miss Granger. You weren't the one to make the report, this _will not_ come back on you. On the contrary, it would have been more of an issue had you not related it." 

He checks the wards, and he can confirm it. Pansy and Draco didn't do their rounds. The Prefects are some of the few students he monitors individually (it's far too much overhead to monitor them all), and he's been alerted soon enough that the signatures won't have completely faded. The timeliness of the Baron's report makes all the difference. A few hours more, and he wouldn't have - _couldn't_ have - known for certain. 

He'll have to speak to them about it. He's not in the least surprised that Draco hadn't performed his duty, Merlin's hairy ball sack, and has to make an effort not to chuckle. Had Severus been in better shape yesterday, he'd have organised a replacement for him himself, but he wasn't. 

And that's enough said about that. 

Now that his hangover is gone, he has no desire whatsoever to dwell on his excesses from the previous night. 

Ever so strangely just a little more alert, it's a wonder what a good Hangover Helper can do, and now that she's suitably... covered, aside from a somewhat plunging neckline, Severus finally notices that the circles under her eyes from Sunday have faded. Arse that he is, he becomes momentarily annoyed that she was getting a good night's rest while he was in the Infirmary before it occurs to him that they had been more evident yesterday evening when she'd come home, and he knows full well she slept - and _where_ she slept - last night. 

And isn't that... disconcerting.  
  


He deals with that typically, which is to say he takes a verbal jab at her. "And surely your Loyalty Vow wouldn't permit you to keep such things from me." She blushes furiously. Neither is certain that that's the sort of thing the Vow _should_ be working to ensure, but both are well aware that it isn't even doing _remotely_ what it should. Which naturally was the entire point of the comment. That reminder causes a rather visible reaction, the bond supplies the rest. 

It's strong enough that Severus almost feels guilty for needling her. 

Almost. 

Well, _he_ feels better at any rate. 

Having about a third of the food he does, she's soon finished her meal except for her grapes, and now sits there watching him. He can't figure out why she doesn't just _leave_. Instead she pushes her tray a bit to the side and eschewing the red throw, wraps herself in the soft blue blanket again. At a guess, it looks like she's here to stay. He may be beginning to eat faster. That's all in the eye of the beholder, however. Hermione can't help thinking how nice it is that he doesn't wolf down his food. 

It occurs to Hermione, now that she's calmer and fed, to wonder that the Professor was at his desk when she'd first left her room, and not in the lounge as she'd expected. Apparently she can't read the bond, or maybe it's the wards, the whichever, quite the way she thinks. She's a little disappointed, not so much that she hasn't got the capability, of course; she hadn't expected it anyway. No, her disappointment, such as it is, stems entirely from having been wrong. She's never liked that. 

She looks about a little as she snacks on her grapes, searching for something to say. Turned as she is, she's angled away from most of the room. As such, there isn't much that look around calls to mind. Not until her eyes alight on the pot of Salve still standing on the end table. "Did you remember to use the Scar Salve?" She asks. She's quite right that it's unlikely he used it if it's still standing out here. 

That wins her a rather pinched face, or perhaps his bite of bacon was unusually bitter. Although that seems... unlikely. He swallows and with more than a little snark evident, answers, "Thank you for the reminder, Miss Granger, but I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself." He's not one of her benighted friends, in need of oversight... 

She can hear the sarcasm, she'd have to be deaf not to, and even then, the bond would presumably _still_ get that across quite effectively. But she simply shrugs. "Madam Pomfrey asked me to keep an eye on you, and frankly, Sir, scars hurt. You don't deserve that." 

It was sight politer than he deserves. "They don't always hurt," he replies more softly and feeling a little guilty as he watches her finger her own scar under the neckline of her blouse. The movement had drawn his gaze, and rather automatically he begins staring fixedly at her fingers and the scar they occasionally reveal beneath them in an effort to avoid her décolletage. Unable to guess his motivation, it only serves to make her feel even more insecure. 

Her fingers fan to cover her scar, her thumb still worrying it under them. He can feel her embarrassment and his first instinct is to think she's embarrassed for telling _him_ , of all people, about scars or pain... A little unfairly, but it's a sore point, he decides that's too self aware and it wouldn't have occurred to her. 

Or maybe the reaction was because she finds scars themselves embarrassing, and has just, ever so kindly, expressed where that would leave _him_ by extension... 

But the bond doesn't let him get away with that. It feels... There's shame there. But no... disgust. No... judgment. 

No, the embarrassment is entirely her own. 

He almost feels guilty again. 

The bond is certainly proving bothersome. 

Either way, it's sufficient to draw a relatively honest answer from him. "You can reassure Poppy. I had some lying about, and I did apply it." Which earns him another beaming smile. He's beginning to feel like that's her version of House points. Well, in comparison to the bonbon system, it has the clear advantage of being calorie free. It's probably also more worthwhile, he thinks with a soft snort, when one's smile looks more like hers and less like his. Although that was presumably only to be expected of the child of dentists. 

He's finished his plate now, too, and placing his unfinished cup of tea on his desk, like her he pushes his tray to the side and begins snacking on the grapes she'd given him, casually popping one into his mouth every now and again in a way that's making Hermione struggle not to stare. He has to admit they're very good. Sweet. 

"Oh," Hermione squeaks up, something just occurring to her, "The Headmaster stopped by yesterday. I wasn't able to let him in."

"Good," comes the immediate and emphatic reply. She sits there blinking at the force of it. He makes the mistake of expanding on it. "I don't want anyone in here." And there go those doe eyes again. Realising his mistake, probably not a moment to soon, he rushes to amend that. "Anyone _else_." She doesn't look convinced, and probably shouldn't be if she's anything less than a complete nincompoop. His lips press together in a tight line at the very thought, but - with some effort - he manages to force out an apology. "I beg your pardon, Miss Granger. I didn't mean to imply you weren't welcome here." 

Frankly, he hadn't just implied it, but Hermione is wise enough to let it go. She knows he wanted this arrangement even less than she did. He had been correct, they have a number of things to work out. She can't expect this to go without some teething troubles. She merely nods her acceptance. 

"What did Albus want?" He asks a bit superfluously, trying to move past it. If it had _mattered_ , Albus obviously would have mentioned whatever it was when they Flooed yesterday. 

"Oh. Ah," she's off to a magnificent start, and he already regrets asking. "Uh, to give us our, um, wedding presents."

Brilliant. 

Right. 

Splendid. 

That hangs there in the air between them for a while, both try to pretend it doesn't. Severus (so suavely) hides behind his tea, Miss Granger nervously nibbles a grape, and yet they both turn reflexively to look at the dining table which still has the witch's artfully arranged display of rubbish upon it. 

Swallowing visibly, apparently that comes a little more difficultly than usual, she finally offers, "I thought, if you don't object that is, that I would take care of writing the 'thank you' notes." Severus can't help it, his bark of laughter coincides with an attempt to sip his tea, so much for appearing nonchalant, and he ends up coughing it over his desk. Sufficiently so that he needs a Tergeo to sort it. (Minerva would be proud.) Perfect. Very subtle. Severus Snape. Master Spy. He's still trying to clear his throat when she, even less certainly, makes her next offer, "Unless you wanted to sign them?" 

Oh, yes, that was _exactly_ what he wanted to do. He'd lost sleep nights, lying awake, just _dreaming_ of such a thing. It was, in fact, his sustaining daydream, the _very_ thing that gave him the strength to endure Crucio upon Crucio... 

Frankly, there is not enough sarcasm in his repertoire to answer this adequately. Which means he sits there silently once he finishes clearing his throat while she just blinks at him. 

Expectantly. 

It's as though she's never _met_ him. 

His preferred approach was to ignore this, but it seems, like everything else, it won't go away of its own accord either. Marvellous. He has two options, allow her to write the cards, and conscientiously objecting, he could predictably refuse to sign them. And be upstaged by the litte chit of a witch. Everyone expects him to ignore the presents, he is sure, just as he is equally sure that not a one of them was intended for him. _Or_ he can take up the challenge, the happy mantle of domesticity, and participate in the sham. 

At the least it would be... unexpected. With a vaguely predatory smirk that leaves her wondering if she should have mentioned it at all, he replies, "By all means. I'll be _happy_ to do so." 

He leans back in his chair, casually crosses his long legs and with one elegant hand sketching the imaginary layout in the air, begins pretending to dictate just such a note line for line. "'Thank you so much for the... ill-considered bit of tat that now clutters our home and proves you know neither of us in the least _despite_ having known us both for _years_.' More in my case, fewer in yours, naturally, but we needn't harp on the obvious. Continuing... 

"'It was _so_ kind of you to think of us! We wish you could have been there for our bonding. It just _wasn’t_ the same without you' - although that last is undoubtably true. Which is even better. Signed, 'Warmly, the Snapes'. Etcetera etcetera, ad nauseum and so forth." He looks proud of himself. 

She looks scandalised. 

"Uh." She doesn't get any further for another moment or two. Possibly, he just became prouder. Yes, option two. He'll be signing the cards, ta muchly. It was clearly likely to cause more uproar than ignoring them would have. He's warming to the idea. "I'll just handle the text then, shall I?" She offers very tentatively. 

"Oh, only if it makes you happier, dearest." A very wolfish grin spreads across his face. But he seems to be enjoying himself, rather a lot, and he isn't... he isn't angry with her, and she finds herself beginning to relax again. 

She doesn't think she quite gets his sense of humour, but it's reassuring to know he has one. 

"There was something else..." She begins.

"Yes, Crumpet?"

"'Crumpet'?" Her voice may have broken. He weighs never addressing her as anything else. 

"'Bakewell _tart_ ' and 'Eton _mess_ ' both have connotations I considered it best to avoid..." He flicks his first two fingers as though discarding the inadequate choices. 

"But 'Crumpet' _didn't_ ," she mutters, but he continues as if he hadn't heard.

"And 'Angel Delight' seemed... excessive." He's unquestionably taking the piss, and Hermione should _really_ know better than to fall for it after all these years in the dorms. It appears he can be every bit as bad as the boys. Or the girls, for that matter. 

"Because those are the only other options..." This is one lesson she _never_ learns. 

"Pray, what did you wish to ask, my little scone. Syllabub? 'Crumpet' was better, don't you think?" He's positively cheerful. The bond continues to cause some emotional... upheaval, but it's _remarkable_ the difference it makes to have had a good cuppa, finally eaten well, and - presumably most importantly - rid himself of the frankly gratuitous hangover pains. He probably should have done that from the outset, although obviously it _had_ been a deliberate decision. Not that those are always the soundest... 

Hermione just really regrets ever mentioning the gifts now, which was rather the point. 

"Are you glowing?" She springs it on him without warning. It wasn't at all what he expected and actually gets him to shut up about that almost as thoroughly as an Everard's Everlasting Gobstopper would have. She might just be proud of herself now as well. 

"Am I what?"

"Glowing."

"Oh, for..." he twitches his wand at the windows and plunges them into darkness (Hermione squeaks in surprise) and, bloody Nora, he is in fact _glowing_. He had sort of thought... No, he hadn't thought about it at all. Because he should bloody well _know_ it wouldn't have worn off by now. Well. He is an idiot. He twitches his wand in the direction of the windows again, and Hermione finds herself blinking against the light. It had been hard to tell in the brightly lit room if he were glowing or not. _That_ had definitely settled it decisively. 

"Well, that's certainly liable to give rise to the wrong sort of speculation, shouldn't you think?" She's grinning now. He pales, briefly, but recovers soon and stops mucking her about. 

"Thank you for pointing it out, Miss Granger. I hadn't noticed." And just like that, she's appeased. 

She lifts her similarly afflicted finger, and now that he knows to look for it, he can discern a faint glow to it as well. "May I ask _why_ we're glowing?" She asks. 

"It was the first potion you gave me last night. Glower's Glowing Elixir. As the name suggests..." He lifts a hand and with a small wave indicates himself and shrugs. 

"And why am _I_ glowing?" She wriggles her finger at him demonstratively. 

"I can only assume you came into contact with the Potion when you unstoppered or administered it. Evidently it works topically as well. Although I don't believe anyone has thought to bathe in it."

"What on earth is it for?" 

He quirks a brow at her, "You mean to say neither the name nor the results were sufficient to answer that?" But she doesn't flinch, more's the pity, and he finds himself replying. "The Lumos isn't as old as the Elixir. It predates the Spell by centuries. There are jobs where light is required, but an open flame is an exceedingly poor idea. This was developed in answer to those requirements. Even in the present day, it's useful for work in the dark where a Lumos is difficult to constantly maintain, or perhaps simply can't be used. When collecting potions ingredients sensitive to magic in a cave or underwater, say." That sounds perfectly logical really, and explains why she wouldn't have encountered it. Of course, he'd expected that when selecting it yesterday; had she been familiar with the Potions, his experiment could scarcely have worked. 

"And the other Potion I gave you?" She prompts. She makes an effort to keep her voice even, and he looks a little sheepish. No, no he doesn't really. He looks pretty much the same as always. But she is sure he _feels_ a little sheepish, and she bites back a smirk. 

"Gnomicide," he answers succinctly. "A Potion that's since fallen out of favour." She looks scandalised again, more, he thinks, that he should be in _possession_ of such a thing then that he'd _taken_ it. Or had her give it to him, more to the point. 

"You wouldn't!" She cries. He's fairly certain she'd see things differently were _her_ garden of rare Potions ingredients under threat, but bites his tongue. Not nearly as fiercely as a Gnome would, but all the same...

"Calm yourself. I don't even advocate the use of Jarveys to run the little blighters off. Tossing them over the garden wall generally does the trick more than well enough. But I do have and brew a wide range of Potions. Rest assured, no Gnomes were injured in the process." She relaxes again. She actually relaxes. He's about to be offended that it's apparently all well and good when _he's_ poisoned with the stuff when it finally dawns on him that he probably doesn't want to open that particular can of worms. Well, he has only himself to blame. Very literally. 

As long as he seems inclined to answer, she's eager to mine him for information. Looking at her hand and then up at him, she begins, "I tried to wash it off, but..." She waggles her finger again. He nods. "Disillusionment didn't work either..." 

He snorts. "Because walking around with a largely invisible hand struck you as less likely to attract attention than the faint glow of your finger by daylight?" 

"I was simply being thorough and thought to test it." He thinks his usual thoughts about _that_ , but keeps them to himself. It doesn't help much as her scowl would indicate she seems able to anticipate them well enough. "And the Notice-Me-Not didn't appear to work either..." It sounds a bit like a question, and it is. Notice-Me-Nots are imperfect at best and _can_ be seen through, all the more easily when one knows what to look for. But she wasn't entirely certain if it had simply failed because she knew what she expected to see. 

Severus confirms her assessment. "No, it probably wouldn't. It should take an exceptionally strong one to do the trick. Fortunately, I have just the thing." He doesn't sound... _feel_ happy about it. She's right about that. It's the Spell Albus has been using to disguise his withered arm. So far it's kept even Poppy from detecting it when she's done her scans, where a Glamour wouldn't have succeeded. But Severus would happily have never heard of the Spell if it meant Albus hadn't had need of it. "If you'd extend your hand, I'll do the honours." She does and soon there's that now familiar warmth that comes when he performs magic on her. She'll have to test it in the dark, but she thinks it's done the trick. Of course, the wizard is fairly reliable in that regard. 

"How long will this last?"

"The Charm or the Potion?" Comes the counter-query. He doesn't wait for her answer. "The Potion will have worn off completely within twenty-four hours. Within eighteen, the glow is generally so faint as not to matter. By daylight, I doubt anyone would notice. And the Notice-Me-Not should last you all day. 

"Which reminds me, I still need to show you the Charms for the windows to regulate daylight and privacy. Would an hour before dinner suit you?" She nods, and he appreciates that she's being accommodating. Truthfully, she's looking forward to learning something new. And even more so, she's exceedingly eager to teach him the automagic Fur Banishing Charm she'd discovered at his request. She wouldn't miss this for the world. But her being obliging has him being more so as well. "If I'm in my laboratory or office, just knock." 

Sensing that inclination about him, Hermione screws up the courage to ask, "As long as you're teaching me the Window Charms, is there any chance... I assume you know a Privacy Charm." He snorts; she chooses not to get insulted, especially as she's angling for a favour, and takes that as confirmation. "Is there any chance you'd be willing to teach me one?"

"You need to know the Window Charms to live in the dungeons with any degree of autonomy. It's another matter entirely to teach you a Privacy Charm. I very much do _not_ wish to be forced to play teacher within my own four walls. And it's hardly fair to the other students." 

She looks disheartened, and he feels he has to justify himself, which leaves him a touch resentful. 

"Completely disregarding my personal wishes in the matter, as most people and things do, let's play the 'what if' game, shall we? How would I explain it to You-Know-Who? Particularly as, in light of the... issues with the Loyalty Vow, your memories are not secure. Albus hasn't demanded it of me, and I have no real justification."

She's about to argue that he could be doing so to maintain his cover, to fool her into trusting him (although his explaining why he _can't_ instead is probably _still_ the better move), but his words about people disregarding his wishes sink in - they'd definitely rung true - and she stops. He doesn't _want_ to do this, and she thinks she's asked more than enough of him lately. She doesn't wish to demand this, too. Not that she could force him, that's not the point, but she gets the feeling rather a lot is asked of him; she doesn't want to make it any worse. She nods her acceptance, and she means it, but her disappointment appears to have intensified. Involuntarily, he feels moved to defend his position once more. 

"Surely you can learn one that would suit your needs from the restricted section?" The bond answers for her; her disappointment has progressed to dejection. Severus thinks he's being quite reasonable - Merlin's beard, he's _been_ quite reasonable _all morning_ ; well, _most_ of it - and can't begin to explain why his question just made matters worse. 

Given how clearly he'd just expressed himself, Hermione has about as much desire to explain her problems with Madam Pince as he appears to have in... 'playing teacher'. 

She can't quite bring herself to lie (she's not that convincing anyway), so she just nods. No, the situation with Madam Pince is a secret she's prepared to take with her to her grave... Fine, that might have been overly melodramatic, although a phantom pain on the back of her head almost begs to differ. But she's certain she'll find another way to sort it. She always does. 

Severus isn't sure why the mood turned, and he's a little annoyed with her that it had. He hadn't been unreasonable, now had he? At least he doesn't think so. He's not her personal tutor, after all. And then he recalls that Albus had asked him to provide private Potions lessons and could almost groan. He'll probably leave it until she brings it up. Avoidance has worked so _well_ for him...

Noticeably more restrained, she rises from the window seat and folds the blanket neatly together. "Shall I return it to the couch?" She asks. When he nods - frankly, he's perfectly willing to give it pride of place, exchanging it for his blue throw that's customarily draped over the couch's back, if she's prepared to leave it there - she Banishes it to the couch with a 'Depulso' and sweep of her wand. 

It's followed by a quiet, "Are you finished with your tray?" He replies in the affirmative, and without further comment she takes it from him and pushes both tablets towards the kitchen. It's an oddly Muggle way of tidying up. Normally he'd Banish the trays to the Hogwarts kitchens, use magic to clean the things or have Sunny take them - which is generally the better of the options by far, for a variety of reasons - but there she is, stood at the sink, doing the dishes by hand. 

He does things like that himself sometimes. He suspects it's a byproduct of being Muggle-raised. He has to be careful, of course, not to do that in the wrong company, but he understands there's some comfort to be drawn from physically performing tasks oneself now and again. 

Of course, Sunny will no doubt be _thrilled_ she's taken over his chores. Severus can't help thinking that's a mistake, a minor tactical error, but it's probably something she needs to learn on her own. He has no intention of moderating between witch and elf unless things go very wrong. Maybe he'll get lucky. She's far too liable to assume he's pursuing his own agenda if he tries to get involved, or that he's just insensitive to elven needs. And Sunny is perfectly capable of... expressing his own objections, should he feel the urge. Merlin is he ever.  
  


Hermione hadn't failed to register that when they entered the flat Sunday evening, with the exception of a single open book, _nothing_ had been out of place. Obviously he hadn't known, he _couldn't_ have, that he'd be out of chambers for days, and then there was the fact he hadn't known he'd have _company_ with him when he returned... She's very aware of how tidy he must be and the importance he presumably places on it. She may be underestimating Sunny's role; that's only natural. But her estimation has left her with a marked desire not to make a bad impression. 

She's in the process of scraping the plates clean and doing the washing up when there's a ripple to the wards. It becomes stronger and stronger until it culminates in a knock at their door.

  



	93. 11 12f Wednesday - ...and Whine 2 Reaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Seventh Years**_  
>  _Draco 7S (Prefect, Team Captain, Seeker, Swot), Theo Nott 7S (Swottiest), Blaise Zabini 7S (Keeper), Vincent 'Vince' Crabbe 7S (Beater, Couch Potato), Gregory Goyle 7S (Beater)_
> 
> _Tracey Davis 7S (Swottier), Daphne Greengrass 7S (Sparkly!), Pansy Parkinson 7S (Prefect), Millicent 'Millie' Bulstrode (Reserve Beater), Alberta Runcorn 7S (Grumpy.)_
> 
> _**Sixth Years** _   
>  _Harper Hutchinson 6S (Prefect, Chaser), Ella Wilkins 6S (Prefect)_
> 
> _**Others** _   
>  _Wilfred Wilkes 4S_
> 
> _**Mentioned:** Portrait Salazar Slytherin (Founder)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Previously:**  
>  All the Previouslies mentioned in 091.
> 
> 078 While delivering Vince to the Infirmary, Theo gave Harper his Oath that he had no idea what the other seventh year boys did to cause their Head of House to be forced to bond Granger, nor did he know what he'd done to intervene. 
> 
> 091 The Snakes wake to discover Draco in understandably poor shape post Serpents, Theo (less understandably) lost to the world, and Vince... Well... He's sticking around the common room for the moment. Not necessarily intentionally. 
> 
> At Harper's request, the seventh year girls are considering giving their aid. They're quite sensibly still trying to get the lay of the land first.

_"You're Crup meat, Hutchinson," Vince hisses._

"Would you care to tell me why I'm bothering to keep an eye on you again?" Harper answers easily, unfussed and not exactly _wisely_. Vince already has a down on him after he took yet another thoroughly embarrassing picture of the Beater, although that _might_ be justified. (Both the action _and_ response, for the sake of accuracy.) Either way, _given_ that, Harper probably _shouldn't_ push it too much further. Which isn't to say he's interested in being _too_ terribly well behaved. He's only human. 

_Worse_ , he's a seventeen year old boy. 

_That_ should end well. 

Gregory, demonstrating more sense than most credit him with, hastens to get between them. That's practically second nature to a Beater, although Vince himself (so characteristically) prefers a more... _offensive_ approach to that position. Of course, it's a feat that's much easier for Goyle to accomplish with Vince effectively glued in place. (Not that that stops him from growling.) 

Having come around to Blaise's opinion as to their current standing in the House, Gregory strongly suspects they'll be needing all the help they can get. Vince doesn't seem to have grasped that yet. One might think _he_ of all people _should have_ , but he's not the quickest on the uptake and might be just a _tad_ distracted at the moment. And he's _really_ never performed all that well on a lack of sleep, either, when it comes right down to it. But then who has?

A bit obsequiously, certainly for _his_ standards, Gregory thanks the sixth year for his help and makes his excuses, "I'm sure he didn't mean it, Harper. He's had a rough night..." 

Harper can only agree. Not that he _forgives_ Crabbe, why on earth should he, but he _is_ able to recognise the truth of that claim. Merlin, even Trelawney could see that.  
  


Daphne doesn't seem to be getting any nibbles to her enquiry on the Fairy Wing Charm (as it will unoriginally come to be known; on the other hand, the typical lack of imagination with respect to the nomenclature has a way of making things easier to remember), which probably makes sense in as much as Vince is likely to drum _whoever_ is behind this into the ground. Tracey would hate to be in his shoes. Or slippers. She never once doubts it was one of the boys. Or several of them, if they got their acts together. Although she _is_ having problems picturing them coordinating a plan of attack... Not if it isn't Quidditch. As she sees it, that's pretty much the beginning and end to their joint plans. 

Tracey grows increasingly more annoyed as she looks at Vince. This is complete and _utter_ bilge, and they've clearly created a situation where they almost _definitely_ will be inconveniencing the Head still more, and hadn't _that_ been half her point just yesterday? That they _shouldn't_? More than a little brassed off, she takes her roommate by the arm, "Come on, Daphne. Pansy will be waiting." 

Harper looks up at that, and having worn out his welcome here, joins the girls on their way to the seventh years' room. He's sort of curious about what had happened to _them_. No time like the present to go see. 

Daphne chirps on enthusiastically to Tracey about the fairy wings. The cool blonde does her best to give non-committal replies, not that the brunette is the least deterred. Harper listens in, amused. It's something he likes, if he's honest. Daph is far from stupid, as her work in Transfiguration or Arithmancy easily proves, but she has a way of seeing the... softer side to things. She looks at the same things everyone else does, and then arrives at different conclusions. Sometimes _very_ different conclusions, he'd grant that, but a bit of distance can make that easier to stomach. Unlike a number of her classmates, he doesn't feel the desire to groan every time she mentions 'Fwoopers', for instance. (Considering the frequency that occurs, it's probably a good thing.)

Harper thinks there are enough people who seem to turn a blind eye to what's been going on here (like Blaise and Pansy) or who fail to recognise what's happening (like Millie). Or then there's Tracey, who _sees_ but struggles to ignore, to just keep her head down, so terribly eager to avoid the wrong sort of notice. Harper finds them incredibly frustrating. 

But Daphne, by and large she seems to understand what's happening, without toeing the party line (like Vince), and yet she often comes away from it with an optimistic take... sort of like a gentler - decidedly _sparklier_ \- version of Gregory. And a complete opposite to Alberta who despite quoting the party line at every opportunity sees only what she wants to and doesn't seem to have grasped what that means in its logical consequences. Added to that, Runcorn's outlook is exceedingly dour. Which is pretty much the _last_ thing anyone needs these days. Really, he'd probably be better off spending more time with Gregory and Daphne. Maybe he should think about joining Frog Choir, if they're still taking people. It doesn't seem to interfere with practice, or Gregory wouldn't be in it...

Harper may be doing Tracey an injustice with his assessment. If anything, her patience with Daphne's... foibles, Tracey's affection - and it's decidedly that - for both Daph and Gregory says quite a bit about her character, most of all that she _isn't_ that different to the sixth year. In part his intolerance for Tracey's avoidant behaviour is because it's much the same role he finds himself playing and thoroughly resenting having to do so. People frequently respond most strongly to the traits in others they don't like in themselves. 

Some days Harper wonders what life could have been like without the Death Eaters, if You-Know-Who had never returned. And as long as he's dreaming, what if 'he'd' never been _at all_...  
  


The three of them enter the seventh year boys' room only shortly after Pansy had. Tracey was right, her solution _was_ more efficient. Not that she expects anyone will acknowledge that...

* * *

  


Millie and Alberta trickle into the common room soon after the other seventh year girls leave. They're every bit as shocked as (almost) everyone else at the sight of Vince. 

"Nimue's knickers." Alberta's got that right. 

Millie lets out something terribly close to a tormented squeal when she sees Vince and pushes her way through the crowd now gathered on the dais at the base of the stairs. Somehow people seem to think their gawking is likely to go less noticed from here. Not bloody likely. Not at all. 

_Bellends_. 

Er, frightfully _rude_ people. Yes. _That_. 

They should ruddy well be ashamed of themselves, they should. 

With another squeal, apparently of indignation this time, she draws her wand and casts a Tergeo on the puddle of drool (and tears, but then no one plans to acknowledge that, at least not without taking a thorough pounding) under Vince's face. "Really? _No one_ thought to clean him up?"

"We were more concerned with opening his mouth, Millie," Gregory tells her quietly, still somewhat shaken from the task. The remains of those horrible stitches are all too visible, and now Vince's cheeks and lips are covered in lacerations as well. Millie has no way of knowing that wasn't part of one of the Hexes. Next she siphons the blood from his face, too. 

"You've gone too far," she tells the others, as she kneels down beside Vince's couch. 

Somehow, the rest of the House _really_ isn't inclined to agree. After what the _boys_ have done to _the Head_? No, this wasn't _remotely_ far enough. 

What it _was_ , however, was _entertaining_. 

Alberta follows her roommate over to the boys, absolutely riveted by the sight. She doesn't even try to hide it, but then she's in excellent company in that regard this morning. Noticeably staring, not that anyone pays her much mind, she takes up position behind Millie, who has begun stroking Vince's back reassuringly. Of course, _that_ proves tricky, what with the wings fluttering and all, but Millie isn't easily discouraged. And it certainly helps that her reflexes are pretty good. 

It would probably have helped _more_ , naturally, were his back in better shape, but then she wasn't to know the extent of the damage and takes his moans as caused by something else. In all fairness, there _are_ rather a lot of potential reasons to choose from just at the moment. 

For his part, Gregory is still trying to figure out how to free Vince from the couch, which is naturally a fair sight more tricky than stroking Vince's back, and it's less than advantageous that Gregory is more easily daunted than Millie. After the damage he did while cutting Vince's stitches, Merlin, he's really not at all sure whether he should continue using his Transfigured tool for the task. But then he's not exactly confident about applying a Diffindo either. The portraits had made him sort of nervous. (Presumably rightly so.) 

In an odd mixture of apprehension and hope, he turns to Millie and Alberta and asks, "I don't suppose you want to take a shot at it?"

Vince, still slurring, hastens to answer before they can, "Merlin, no!" 

It comes out a bit strongly. 

Wilfred Wilkes, now perched with his roommates on one of the tables in the common room, snickers, _"Nice one!"_ , and takes an elbow to the ribs for it from one of the other fourth years.

Vince gets the hint and tries again, "We're good, Gregory. _Really_. You should go ahead."

Alberta tries not to be offended - not with much success - but then _she_ wasn't entirely keen to help anyway. Unsurprisingly, she's currently _less_ so. Millie, not having been the one to use that particular Charm on Vince last night, fortunately doesn't stop to consider his meaning one way or the other. But she's happy to let Gregory take the lead on this if the boys would prefer it. And all that cutting next to the antique couch... Frankly it seems like a _horrible_ idea. 

Although leaving Vince _stuck_ to it might not be that much better...

With some trepidation, Gregory now alternates between tool and Charm, trying to saw his friend free of the couch. Faced with a choice, Gregory is far more willing to risk cutting his roommate than the couch. Rather predictably, he does so more than once. And evidently that hurts. 

Vince, now recovered sufficiently to scream again, resumes doing so. Quite loudly. 

And so very strangely, _not a one_ of the people watching offers a more suitable tool. 

It probably just slipped their minds. 

Millie shifts to holding Vince's hand in support, which was easier anyway. It doesn't do much for the pain, but it's good to know _someone_ cares. Of course, he damn near breaks her fingers in his crushing grip. Bloody hell. Er... But then that's what Episkeys are for. And Pain Relief. A bit belatedly, it occurs to her Madam Pomfrey didn't have any. Bugger. 

Er, _drat_. Yes. _That_. 

Alberta had meant to get a jump on the day, but honestly, she doesn't want to miss this. She wonders if _she_ shouldn't be the one holding Vince's hand, all considered; she _had_ been at least a _little_ interested in him. But then their decision to... freeze the boys out has rendered _that_ somewhat besides the point, and it seems a waste of effort. Really, as things stand _now_ she has to wonder if _any_ of them should be holding his hand. But it's not like Millie has any genuine interest. They're just friends. 

It will probably take them a while to drum that out of her.  
  


Meanwhile, so many of their other Housemates have gathered that they no longer all fit comfortably in discrete little groups on the dais. Slowly but surely, the common room is filling.

* * *

  


Pansy has joined Blaise in trying to help Draco get vertical. It's rough going, and she hasn't done any more than a cursory check on Theo. 

It's not that she didn't understand Daphne's point about Nott; in time it may prove to be correct. But Pansy isn't Theo's greatest fan to begin with and she and Draco have a long history and have always been on very good terms. (Well, _almost_...) And she certainly gets on well with Blaise, too. So _that's_ how she allocates her resources, _her_ time and energy: helping _them_. 

Her problem with Theo is relatively simple. He's sort of her polar opposite. That's something else people often have little patience for, people who _well and truly_ bollocks up something they themselves have solved _well_. Where her family had elegantly negotiated the turbulent waters of showing their political colours, _his_ father had landed in Azkaban their fifth year. And allegedly is a wanted _fugitive_ (of all things) at the present, but then the least said about _that_ , the better. 

Of course, the same was true for Draco, and it isn't entirely by coincidence - or his lack of interest (and he's been rather famously distracted for a good year now) - that Pansy had shifted her sights to Blaise, whose forearm bears no Mark. He can always get one at a later point if it ever proves necessary. But it really doesn't help that Theo doesn't seem to have the same quiet confidence in his abilities - and make no mistake, they certainly have some abilities - that the other Death Eaters' sons show. Even Gregory and Vince, who'd both had problems achieving a satisfactory O.W.L. in DADA had worked long and hard enough with tutors to be brought up to steam - not necessarily by _choice_ , but that's another matter - and both were now in the N.E.W.T. class. 

And when _they_ cast a Curse, the thing tends to hit home with a vengeance. For some individuals, that's all that counts. 

That's just not how people tend to see _Theo_. Which isn't to say he doesn't know more spells; he does. Or that he hasn't devised more of his own; he has. Or that he isn't capable of casting spells the others can't; Merlin, he does it on the reg. But that doesn't always get the attention it probably deserves. 

That's a problem that has frustrated Severus ever since his days as a student, that people insist on confusing _intent_ with _skill_. While solid intent is _crucial_ \- he'd never argue otherwise; he's not some gormless halfwit - under the right circumstances, _skill_ is what determines all a witch or wizard will ever achieve. In times of peace, _he'd_ bank almost exclusively on skill. 

Of course, in a _fight_ , intent is often what matters more. Or speed and creativity. And as they seem to find themselves immersed in a protracted, never-ending battle... Pansy may not be completely on the wrong track.  
  


Blaise and Pansy have had made some progress; Draco is finally standing on his own. He may be up and about, but he looks about as good as he might had he been hit by the Knight Bus. Obviously the chances of _that_ are a good deal less likely than receiving another three Serpents at once. (Unfortunately _those_ chances aren't as improbable as he'd prefer. Some members of his House have so kindly already begun making wagers. They're thoughtful that way.) 

His first move, and he deserves some credit for that, is to check on Theo once he hears how he's doing. Naturally he has every bit as much luck with that as the others had. Although that's a fairly predictable result, really, it still generates some more guilt - Draco has quite a bit just at the moment - as he correctly assumes this might have something to do with the letter he'd left for Theo to read. 

A casual survey of Nott's bed shows it's not lying about, for which Draco's grateful, especially given Pansy's presence, and a surreptitious attempt to check Theo's nightstand shows... he has none. Which is probably bollocks. It had been there yesterday, after all. A less casual attempt that takes almost all of Draco's energy and no less than three different wandless, nonverbal Spells he'd learnt from his aunt Bellatrix finally reveals the nightstand to his eyes. It may have taken him a minute or two. He borders on proud that he manages it in his condition; it seems Theo had been canny. As Blaise and Pansy chat, patently more willing to accept their inability to help Nott, Draco idly gropes behind his back. This search leads his fingers to the handle of a drawer that proves to be rather thoroughly locked. He doesn't think anyone else will think to search for it - why would they? - and finally surrenders. 

Blaise, a little concerned the boys are about to become pariahs, takes advantage of the moment to make sure Pansy is still on speaking terms with him. She is, which he's relieved to note, although decidedly somewhat frosty, and in time - not much of it - he'll come to realise just _how much_ frostier that reception has become. Ironically, that might have proven _very_ frustrating indeed if Severus, of all wizards, weren't soon to inadvertently assure that it is _not_ , which is just another example of what can happen when attacks aren't coordinated. 

Communication is _key_.

* * *

  


_Theo is in something of a fugue state. The Muggle-born in his year keep passing through his thoughts. Jones and Perks, Smith, whatever. Hufflepuffs, both in his Herbology class. MacDougal. Ravenclaw. He has her in five of his classes. And then he finds himself desperately trying to reword that. He doesn't 'have her', he's never 'had her', he wouldn't want to. Not that there's anything wrong with her per se... He stops himself before he makes it worse. She sits in Potions, Transfiguration, Charms, Herbology and Astronomy with him. Granger, Madam Snape is even worse. She's in all his classes but Astronomy. Well, that and Potions now. She's not in Potions any more... And then he has to try desperately not to think about just why that is. _

_Herbology is clearly the worst class. Will be the worst class. He has all four of them in that one. That is to say, all four of them are in that class with him. _

_Language is deadly._

_A conscience even more so._

_Today is a Wednesday, Herbology is the last class of the regular day. Not counting Astronomy after dinner. Yes, today should be a treat. He has no idea how he's going to get through it._

_He's probably better off never getting out of bed again._

_And then there are the sixth year witches. Kilkenny, Devi, whatever and Rosenkrantz in Gryffindor. Randle in Ravenclaw._

_There's a fifth year Gryffindor, and a Hufflepuff. How old are they? Fifteen? Sixteen? His stomach threatens to rebel again. Two fourth years, too, in the same Houses._

_If he keeps this up he will be ill again. _

_He probably deserves to be..._

* * *

  


Draco has just begun attempting to pace the room, trying to walk off the effects of the Serpents, when Tracey, Daphne and Harper enter. Malfoy's visibly unsteady, but better than those three had expected given Blaise's report. Of course, Vince's Potion has something to do with that. As Draco's regained his feet, and Theo hasn't, Daphne rushes over to him first - although it does makes a difference that they're much closer. Harper trails after her, as Theo disappointingly promises to be the only sight worth seeing left in the room. 

Tracey trusts Daphne to do what's necessary, albeit probably while nattering on about Fwoopers (and now apparently _fairy wings_ , bless), and with no hesitation advances on Draco and begins to give him what for. She squares her shoulders and takes up position in front of the Seeker. They look so much alike - except for the eyes - they could almost be siblings (Merlin knows, she _fights_ like one, but that's the advantage of knowing one another so well), and there's something almost amusing for the others in watching the slight blonde repeatedly poke the much taller, muscular boy in the chest with her finger as she goes, making a quite a few points about Vows and Geases and bonds in general. Yesterday had given her the practice to leave the politics out of it nicely. 

Today she puts that to use. 

Harper has to admit, he's quite pleasantly surprised by the dressing-down, and carefully notes just how she manages to avoid taking a stand on the blood-purity issue as she proceeds. Her arguments are typically well considered. He leans against Theo's bedpost, enjoying the show. Of course he'll be decidedly _less_ pleased, although even more surprised, when later in the day she turns on him and tells him he needs to have the boys better under control. He may as well try herding Kneazles. 

Pansy, although mildly taken aback, doesn't disagree with Tracey in the least, happy _someone_ seems to remember what they'd agreed upon last night, and takes a step back to give the girl more room to vent. Naturally that move is ostensibly just to get closer to where Daphne is checking on Theo; she can be subtle. Definitely more so than the other girls. Blaise, no one's fool, wants no part _whatsoever_ of the talking-to Tracey is unleashing on Draco and quickly follows after Pansy, just as elegantly as possible. 

Daphne's having no more success than the others reaching Theo, although she tries her very best. She's very rightly concerned at the state of her friend, more so, of course, as she has reason to fear his condition is related to the Somnolence Charm she'd cast on him yesterday evening. It's a perfectly logical conclusion (she's better at those than most recognise), although incorrect, but then she has no way of knowing about the Malfoys' letter Theo had read or the effect it had on him. Worried she'd made something of a hash of the Sleeping Charm, she nervously turns to Harper to demand why he hadn't said just how badly off Theo was. 

"I'd have come sooner!" She cries. As if those few minutes would have made any difference, or in any way changed the fact she has no idea what to do for her friend. 

"I didn't know, Daph, I swear. I hadn't seen him myself. I only had the information Blaise gave me." Which puts the blame, quite rightly, squarely on Blaise, who now beats _another_ retreat, angling Pansy with one of his long arms and leading her with him as part of his ongoing charm assault of moderate proportions. Merlin knows, he usually has far better luck on that front than he's having today.

Realising she probably can't help Theo, Daphne turns now to Tracey, asking her for help, but her friend is so caught up in her bollocking of Draco, she's almost as difficult to reach in her own way as Theo. She doesn't seem to hear the request or the follow up, "Tracey?"

"Why on earth should we be helping _any_ of you?" Tracey demands of Draco, with another sharp stab of her finger. It's unexpectedly strong. 

Draco, who had independently arrived at much the same conclusions as Blaise had vis-à-vis their status in the House is now having their situation made all too clear by Tracey. And he sort of thought she _liked_ him... He fails to recognise _that_ fact is just likely to make her all the angrier, the more _disappointed_ in the present constellation. He struggles to make himself heard above her barracking, succeeding, but only just. 

"Fine, I won't say you're wrong, but _Theo_ didn't deserve this." It might help if they had any idea what 'this' is, or if it had actually been deliberately done to him. They aren't remotely sure it was. After all, he's hardly in the same position as Vince, prostrate on a couch and flapping... Admittedly that's a rather unusual position for anyone to be in and probably shouldn't be taken quite so literally, but the thought instantly crosses Harper's mind nevertheless, much to his amusement. He suppresses a chuckle he is quite sure Daphne is almost guaranteed to take the wrong way. 

Still, it's unclear that Theo had actually been _punished_ in any way. 

Draco proceeds to draw his wand, which immediately attracts all eyes, although no one else makes a move yet. Daphne, Pansy and Harper palm their wands, and Blaise sort of wishes he'd stayed in the common room with Vince. He can't seem to find the right place to be this morning for love or Galleons. Tracey stands her ground, unblinking, a Protego practically on her lips. All other conversation stops completely. 

Everyone's expecting a hexing. 

If anything, the room becomes even quieter as Draco then takes Tracey's hand and gives her his Oath instead. 

"I'm afraid I can't tell you a thing about _why_ we ended up here," which obviously isn't the same as _not_ knowing, "but I swear, Tracey, you have my _Wizard's Oath_ , Theo did _nothing_ to contribute to this situation with the Head. In fact, Theo probably did everything he reasonably _could have_ to _prevent_ it. He deserves your help. I solemnly swear it." The magic flares, and everyone's eyes, including Blaise's, dart to Draco's wand. 

Surprisingly, it remains whole. 

He's laid it on a little thick, but then that's Draco for you. 

Harper in particular notices Theo had phrased it very differently when he gave him his Oath yesterday, and assumes Draco knows more about what happened than poor Nott. That only serves to further convince him Theo is as innocent as the boy's father and Draco would have him believe. 

From there it's a short leap to weighing the chances of getting the others to tone down their attacks on the seventh years, because they'd clearly gone overboard, and he _knows_ it, and there's no way this doesn't ultimately mean _more_ work for the Head. (He's trying very hard not to think about that. He _certainly_ won't be the first one to suggest it...) To top it off, one of their Beaters most definitely _won't_ be fit for practice today, and he wonders if it will be possible to talk the boys in the House into taking it easier on the four Quidditch players and sparing Theo simultaneously. 

He suspects not, which leaves him uncomfortable. 

There's something about Theo that reminds him a little of Hunter. Theo just hasn't got an energy about him that convinces others to leave him be. Harper imagines he's taken more than a few hexes over the years for that fact alone. 

He's correct, but the fact Theo is a _Nott_ , and happens to know a _very_ wide range of hexes and counters himself had certainly made a substantial difference. He was never as vulnerable as Hunter. But then he also didn't have the advantage of family to protect him at school.  
  


" _Please_ , Tracey," Daphne tries again. "Would you _please_ take a look at him?" The tears beginning to form in her eyes might be there even if she weren't feeling as guilty. As it is, Daphne is quite anxious, and Harper starts to feel guilty he'd sought sport in watching the boy's misfortune. 

Draco's Oath serves as a form of carte blanche to allow Tracey to overcome her misgivings and at least _try_ to do as Daphne asks. Reassuring her friend they'll sort this one way or another (although that last by rights _should_ be more worrisome than consoling), she now lays off Draco to join the others by Theo's bed. 

Draco breathes a sigh of relief. Still, somehow he suspects this isn't over. 

Pansy stands there, trying to tell herself that the reason Tracey's opinion is required has nothing to do with the witch's superior skills. She doesn't quite succeed. It's a bit of a sore point sometimes that people seem to think Davis is smarter than she is. It's even more of a sore point because Pansy, too, is privately pretty sure that she is. But then politics had to count for something, and that was definitely something she and her family had well in hand. The Davises couldn't hold a candle to them there. 

Envy plays a _definite_ role when Pansy discovers she's a little relieved that Tracey has no more luck waking Theo than any of the rest have had.  
  


Tracey is even quicker to arrive at the same conclusions as Daphne, in part trusting to the brunette's evaluation. She may have Fwoopers on the brain, but Daph's a capable witch. Tracey just can't think of anything to do for Theo either. It doesn't take her long before she's suggesting, "I think our best bet might be asking Ella. She knows more Healing Charms than I do by far. Does someone want to go see if she's still here?" 

Given the time, she _could have_ left for breakfast already. Of course, given the _sights_ in the common room, it's likely she'll have stuck around. Tracey doesn't mention that. She also doesn't mention that she's not certain Ella will be willing to help the boys in the least, although it's harder to resist when someone's stood before you, asking for help. She'll let the sixth year make her own excuses if she deems them necessary. Although in the interests of fairness, Tracey _will_ pass along what Draco had sworn. And if she didn't, Daphne certainly would. 

Harper leaves to try to fetch Ella before the sentence is even finished, but Tracey honestly doesn't fancy their chances here either way. She turns to Blaise, "I really think we're going to need to let the Head know about this."

"You can't mean that," he's quick to object, aghast. The day _isn't_ going well for them. That's _sure_ to make it worse. 

And it's only breakfast time...

"Well, unless you know how to sort Theo, or get Vince off the couch, then I'm fresh out of ideas." 

Blaise and Pansy have just begun to try to dissuade her - it sounds like a _dreadful_ idea - while Draco, fearing Tracey might be right, attempts to make himself invisible, figuratively, when Harper returns with Ella. She'd been in the common room with the other sixth years by now, and he's back with her in tow almost immediately.

Everyone is waiting with bated breath, she's their last resort before the Avada option, and the sixth year can't help wondering what the undercurrent is. She just feels it's _there_. Still, it doesn't slow her down any; if anything, she tries harder. She doesn't have too many Healing Charms at her disposal, and most wouldn't help here anyway - Theo hardly requires bandaging, say, or the Styptic Flick, or most of the other things she could do. She rather wishes she knew the Discerno like Madam Snape... _Hermione_ , but then she probably still wouldn't have any ideas how to help Theo then either. It takes her only minutes to confirm Tracey's assessment, "I really don't think there's anything I can do for him," which is when Tracey makes the situation clear. 

"There you have it. If she can't do it, we're out of options. We can't sort this on our own. We need help. _His_ help." And _now_ Ella is worried, too. 

"Oh, he's _not_ going to like this." Ella sighs. That she knows _exactly_ who 'he' is betrays the fact she's secretly inclined to agree with Tracey. "Couldn't we Mobilicorpus Theo to Madam Pomfrey?" She suggests without much hope. 

"And what are we going to do with Vince?" Tracey counters. 

Blaise would _very much_ like to suggest a Wingardium Leviosa on the couch and taking Vince, plus furniture, to the Infirmary as well. Let _them_ sort it; they're the professionals. Surely if a number of the Snakes tried with the couch, the manoeuvre should be possible... Although he has a niggling suspicion the couch might have an Anti-theft Charm on it that could put paid to that plan right quick. That seems a sensible precaution in a House full of wand wielding juveniles... But just at the moment, he has the feeling he's best off not attracting Tracey's attention, which he rightly suspects is synonymous with her ire. He ever so judiciously holds his tongue. 

Daphne, eager to get help for Theo, is the first to overtly concede Tracey's point. "Who should go get him?" 

This is one of those aspects where the Snakes aren't like other Houses. The Moggies would probably send the person who made the suggestion. The Snakes, once they reach a consensus that a thing should be done, will then generally proceed to behave in a fashion most likely to achieve that communal goal. They work to _succeed_. 

At least when the _girls_ are involved and _politics_ aren't... Sadly, those circumstances are becoming rarer of late.  
  


The seventh year boys are clearly out of the question for this mission. 

Daphne, on the other hand, would be a good choice. People tend to like her, admittedly more so _outside_ of the House, but still. She hasn't done anything to exacerbate the Head's situation. That obviously helps. The only drawback is a request for assistance from her might not be taken as seriously. 

No one needs to say it. 

Daph frowns a little when their collective glances move past her. She can imagine why. 

Pansy, Tracey, Harper and Ella look from one to another, and finally Ella speaks up, "I guess I should go then..." Harper and Blaise let out breaths they didn't even notice they were holding. It's a relief that Ella recognises that. It simplifies things. Although Tracey and Pansy probably wouldn't have had too many qualms about telling her she needed to do it if it hadn't occurred to her first. 

Ella starts for the door and then turns to her fellow sixth year Prefect. "Harper, have you got a moment?"

"For you?" He grins. The 'always' is basically a given. He follows her from the room, shutting the door behind him. 

"I heard from some of the others that you snapped a shot of Vince again. If so, you might want to get that developed soon," she tells him as the door closes. 

"I doubt there's any rush," he reassures her. "It's not like Vince is going anywhere," he grins somewhat mischievously as he leans back against the wall. The portrait of Salazar Slytherin has accused him of trying to single-handedly hold up the walls of the dungeons on his own two shoulders on more than one occasion. Of course, _that_ particular portrait seems _especially_ stiff. Harper's not likely to take advice on proper posture from _him_. 

"I shouldn't bet on that remaining the case once the Head gets here." She has a point, and Harper nods. "Oh, and I like the new slippers, by the way." 

"But not the robe?" That's unexpected. But then of course, she knows it's Blaise's. _Everyone_ knows it's Blaise's. It's a bit like collecting a pelt. A very expensive and flash pelt. She can practically write the story there all by herself. But the slippers are potentially more... interesting. 

"Did you do them?" She prompts. 

"Are you kidding? _How_ many years have you sat next to me in Transfiguration? You really should know better." He smirks. She waits him out, and he answers the unasked question. "Daphne did them." 

"She did a lovely job." 

"She did, didn't she?" He's back to looking at them in satisfaction. 

"I'd have done them for you if you'd asked, you know," she assures him softly. 

"I know..." His reply is almost as soft. 

"You just don't like asking." It's a simple statement of fact, devoid of judgment. For all it's neutrality, or perhaps _because_ of it, it feels a little like a hug.

"I didn't ask Daphne either, she just..." 

"Daph'd you," Ella smiles broadly. 

"Pretty much," he nods. 

"To be honest, I wouldn't have been able to do as nice a job. They'd have been more in keeping with your pyjamas than the robe." 

Harper lets out a huff of self-deprecating humour. "My pyjamas are almost fit for the bin." He opens the robe and flashes them to prove his point. 

Ella is well aware of the worn state of his sleepwear. As far as she can tell, he's had them for a couple of years now and keeps Transfiguring them larger and larger, and to be honest, it's far from his strong suit. She doesn't show pity; he wouldn't want that. Instead she fixes him with a mischievous smirk and quips, "Well, then I'm sure I could have upheld the standard." 

He gives her a gentle nudge to the ribs. "That's my Ella, never flagging." 

"That was horrible," she giggles. He chuckles and she butts her head against his shoulder. "Now go on, shift. And get those snaps done."

"Good luck," he wishes her. He really wouldn't want to be the one fetching the Professor to help those boys. Ella's brave that way. But then, it's not like the Head could expect the House to know what the boys had done.  
  


Or could he...

  



	94. 11 12g Wednesday - ...and Whine 3 Inaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Severus and Hermione_
> 
> _**Seventh Years** _   
>  _Draco 7S (Prefect, Team Captain, Seeker, Swot), Theo Nott 7S (Swottiest), Blaise Zabini 7S (Keeper), Vincent 'Vince' Crabbe 7S (Beater, Couch Potato), Gregory Goyle 7S (Beater)_
> 
> _Tracey Davis 7S (Swottier), Daphne Greengrass 7S (Sparkly!), Pansy Parkinson 7S (Prefect), Millicent 'Millie' Bulstrode (Reserve Beater), Alberta Runcorn 7S (Grumpy.)_
> 
> _**Sixth Years** _   
>  _Harper Hutchinson 6S (Prefect, Chaser), Ella Wilkins 6S (Prefect), Aaron Avery 6S (Reserve Chaser), Sheldon Shafiq 6S (Reserve Beater, and charm on legs)_
> 
> _**Others** _   
>  _Hunter Hutchinson 4S (Imp), Wilfred Wilkes 4S, Bartholomew 'Bart' Burke 5S (sallow)_
> 
> _**Mentioned:** Colin Creevey (words fail), Madam Zabini (Blaise's mother), Portrait Salazar Slytherin (Founder), Anthony Avery (Severus' school roommate, Death Eater) _

Ella turns right towards the common room, Harper goes left and deeper into the dorms to his own room one further down. 

Ella had a point of course, about the pictures. (But then she generally does. Bright witch, Ella.) Although he'll miss the warmth of the water - and they have such excellent pressure in the showers here, too... - he decides he'll opt for Charms instead to save time getting ready this morning. He's good at those having taken care of his little brother for so many years. (Just like he's good at... obtaining his father's wand and using it to perform them instead of his own. He's far from stupid.) The Charms will win him the time he needs to develop the pictures. 

First he puts the Dagger-o-type films in the Developing Solution, leaves it to set, and then he gets ready. Developing them takes longer, of course, than Creevey's Filch C3 Matchmagic Photo-royd films do, but Harper's never had that kind of money to spare for a camera. (Colin, from a good working class home, would be _stunned_ to know that's how Harper see him.)

And not that Harper chooses to see any similarities between himself and the Muggle-born Moggie... None at all. 

Still, the Dagger-o-type pictures _were_ a step up from the Heliographs with their yellowish tinge and rather... pungent oil of lavender based Developing Solutions. He's glad for that. He used to smell far too much like his great aunt Harriet after using that stuff. 

Harper's Charms go even faster than Pansy's, his hair and image both demanding less primping, and it's not long before he's following in Ella's footsteps and he's back in the common room to watch the show. The seventh years' room hadn't provided _nearly_ the entertainment value that Vince does...

* * *

  


With Pansy, Tracey and Daphne there to keep watch, Blaise's presence is... no longer required. At least that's the feeling he's getting. (He's not exactly wrong.) Even if it's a far from complimentary attitude, he takes advantage of that fact to hop in the shower. 

Draco is still too shaky to want to brave the showers. The fact he doesn't even apply Charms to clean and dress himself says everything about both his energy and priorities this morning. He sits there on the edge of Theo's bed now, trying not to attract the notice of the three witches. It's probably for the best. 

The girls avail themselves of Draco's bed, as long as _he_ isn't going to be using it, settling in to wait for Ella to return with the Head and whispering to themselves about who must have cast precisely what on Vince, and just _how on earth_ does one make those _wings_? (That last might have predominantly been down to Daphne.) 

Draco isn't able to make much sense of what little he overhears, not having seen the boy yet. 

Zabini emerges from the showers with a towel slung low about his hips, and he's gratified with the reactions the sight of his bare chest and stomach earns him. Of course, he'd expected no less. He still has _that_ , if nothing else. Disappointing his viewing public, he dresses behind a Notice-Me-Not. An _unusual_ one, which serves to very effectively thwart the gazes of the witches present, as Pansy soon discovers. _Such_ _a pity. You can't blame a witch for trying._ Well, not unless a person's right to privacy is a concern... 

Noticing her roommate's response, Tracey comes to the conclusion she isn't the only one who isn't going to enjoy their embargo on the seventh year boys. She understands the logic behind the decision, she _agrees_ with it - in principle - but she finds herself thinking this _isn't_ one of their better ideas. And then she chides herself as to her priorities. It had been perfectly _sensible_ decision. 

She simply doesn't _like_ it. 

She looks at Draco half cowering on Theo's bed and sighs in frustration. Presumably that will only get worse.  
  


In the process of getting ready, Blaise stumbles upon the letter from his mother that had been hidden beneath her Poste Serpentes. The 'post-Poste Serpentes' as Marcus Flint, one of the boys a handful of years ahead of him, had come to call them. Merlin knows, Marcus had received quite a number of Serpents over the years. (Usually for not fouling more subtly at Quidditch...) The name caught on, but then laziness won out, and today it's just the 'post-Serpent'. 

It had retaken its place around Blaise's wrist after biting him, and as he lay sleeping had relinquished its hold once more to curl up on his bedside table, much like a garden snake sunning on a warm rock in summer. Curious, he picks up the twist of parchment and opens it with a quick sideways glance at the girls. They're no longer paying him any attention. But then he'd left them with nothing to see. 

He scans the letter, if it can even be called that, it's more of a note really. He'd have been able to anticipate most of it, had he thought to try. His mother reiterates bits of the Serpent's message, Professor Snape had 'deserved better' from him and evidently she's ' _extremely_ disappointed', that's no surprise. She usually gets over it quickly enough. She's hardly in a position to cast Stinging Hexes. Mostly she objects to his getting caught, naturally, which makes perfect sense from her standpoint. Fundamentally, _her_ continued freedom and sanity - Merlin knows, Dementors' Kisses wreak _havoc_ on that - are _predicated_ on never getting caught.

The only intriguing thing in the note is the single new addition, 'Consider your allowance halved.' He stares at that for a moment and then bites back a chuckle, uncertain how his Notice-Me-Not will fare with sound and suspecting any amusement on his part is almost sure to rub the witches present the wrong way. 

He appreciates the sentiment, halving his allowance... It certainly _sounds_ threatening enough. And it's a bit of a pity, to be sure. But then he has his trust fund, now doesn't he? Shaking his head at his mother's woolly-headedness, which seems so _unlike_ the normally shrewd Zabini matriarch, he continues about preparing himself to face what promises to be a rough day. 

Still, just to be on the safe side, perhaps he'll ask Ella or Harper. Their parentals are solicitors, and they usually know their way around legal things like that. It's probably best to know what he's facing.

* * *

  


Severus has moved on to Nott's Charms' assignment, reading through it as he sits at his desk. From the look of it, it's another perfect piece of work that will soon meet its end at tip of his wand. He'll savour that even more than Goyle's mediocre Creatures effort. Had there not been the issue of the war and the related politics, Theo might have made an excellent choice for Prefect. But then Severus considers how well the boy would have been likely to stand up to others' inevitable objections to his supervision, his authority... He's forced to acknowledge, on balance, that appointment probably wouldn't have been all that much more satisfactory than Lupin's was in his day. 

With a faint snort he mentally adds, 'Or Weasley's.' 

Miss Granger is still at the sink doing the dishes. As a trained spy (who apparently spews traitorous tea over his papers at the least provocation; bygones), he naturally keeps half an eye on her as she does so. 

It occurs to him that only this past Sunday he'd assured her she'd never need to clean for him... 

He's really not at all certain how they got here. 

Of course, a Granger-shaped house elf is probably the least odd aspect of the thing. 

Perhaps this is a manifestation of some desire to spare Sunny the bother... 

There's a familiar ripple to their wards followed almost predictably by a knock at the door. The young woman _could_ have gone past without stopping, but the vector of movement made that less likely. 

Miss Granger, less familiar with the wards and what they convey, starts just a little in surprise and turns to look at him questioningly. "Sir?" She prompts. 

"It's Miss Wilkins," he answers simply, and her confusion is instant. He sort of likes it - oh, yes, he's an accomplished wizard and can work magic, imagine that - but takes pity once more and explains, "The Prefects are some of the individuals whom I track individually through the wards." He's about to lay Theo's homework down and address the interruption when Miss Granger speaks. 

"Shall I get it then?" She asks, wiping her hands on a towel. 

Severus blinks, taken aback for the briefest of moments and then nods. "By all means." He gestures invitingly towards the door. He can't help feeling trapped in a theatre of the absurd piece. There's no such thing as wizarding kitchen sink drama, after all... On the other hand, his pride won't allow him _not_ to come to terms with their new circumstances as well as she seems to be doing. And if she wishes to include 'butler' in her self-imposed house elf duties, so be it. 

This will never _not_ be strange, he is sure.  
  


Hermione makes an effort to listen to the wards again, just for practice, as she goes to the door. She still can't tell how he knows it's the Slytherin sixth year Prefect (although she doesn't doubt he's correct), but she expects to see a single person standing before her when she opens the door, and does. She's pleased she seems to have grasped that much at least. "Good morning, Ella," She greets the younger girl cheerily. "What can I do for you?" 

Ella hadn't anticipated this. 

She's well aware, naturally, that Hermione _lives_ there, but to have her _answer their Head's door_ like that... Well, it was... unexpected. 

She's quick, however, to recognise having Hermione as a buffer between herself and the Head is far from disadvantageous. As a House, they've undoubtedly taxed him to the limit this week, and she's the bearer of presumably bothersome tidings, as it were. Not that she expects him to take his anger out on her exactly, he wouldn't, but his sarcasm can be... blistering. Assuming one is smart enough to register it anyway. With some of the Gryffindors, she has to wonder sometimes. 

Present company excepted, of course. 

"Oh, good morning, Hermione. Sorry to bother you so early, but I'm afraid we have a situation that requires the Head's attention. Has he... That is, is he sufficiently recovered to help us?"

Her voice carries, it's another of the Perception Charms on the door, like the one that permits Hermione to see further in both directions than physically possible, and Severus has no trouble hearing the sixth year. He sighs to himself and calls over, "Tell her I'll be with them in a moment." Hermione turns to look at him enquiringly, and he answers her unasked question, "She can neither hear nor see me outside of the Privacy Barrier." 

She nods in reply and relays his message. Ella thanks them, saying she'll pass it along to the others. But as she turns to go, Hermione stops her, "I wanted to thank you again, by the way, for last night." She fingers the back of her head at the thought, or perhaps in demonstration. "I'm pretty sure you saved me from a colossal headache." 

"It was my pleasure. I'd say 'anytime', but here's hoping you won't need it..." she smiles at the older girl and Hermione smiles winningly back. 

"Excellent point," she concedes. 

Severus meanwhile Incendios Theo's work, and then puts the remaining scroll, Crabbe's History of Magic homework, in his desk drawer which he locks. He manages not to feel particularly guilty at that, but can't help a furtive glance in Miss Granger's direction as he does it. It's nothing personal, merely best practices. Pocketing the note he'd written to remind himself of the various points to mention to Hagrid about Goyle's and Crabbe's Care for Magical Creatures work, he stands. Pushing in his chair, he Summons his light cloak - much of the rest of the castle can be a good deal chillier than their quarters - and strides towards the door. 

"Oh, he's coming now," Hermione, looking back at the Professor, informs Ella, who was again turning to leave. "Is there anything I can do to help?" 

Severus isn't sure which of the two of them she's asking, to be honest, and clearly doesn't know enough at this stage to answer, regardless. When Miss Wilkins doesn't respond, however, studiously examining some recessed stones in the wall nearly opposite, he decides she, at least, took it as directed at him. As Miss Wilkins can't hear him, he's sorely tempted to answer in his typically acerbic fashion, making his lack of information abundantly clear. 

And then he reconsiders. 

They've just spent a peaceful half an hour or more together, and he can't see the advantage to aggravating the witch. _Particularly not_ as he'd learnt yesterday that _he_ pays the price for that via the bond. What had she said? They should treat one another with 'mutual respect and civility'. How hard can that be?

Given that Miss Wilkins _can't_ hear his reply, he decides to give an uncharacteristically polite one. "Not at the moment," he answers evenly and then proceeds to make the witch's day. "Should that change, I'll send word. But thank you for the offer." It wasn't much. It certainly wasn't _excessive_. But Miss Granger rewards him with the widest imaginable grin. And _that_ was something he _should have_ considered, because _she_ _is_ standing within the space well visible to those outside their chambers, and the expression on Miss Wilkins' face would indicate _she_ didn't miss that grin at all. 

But then how could she? Severus is quite certain it could be seen clear from the other side of the castle, if it came down to that. 

Hmm. 

He'll be more careful next time. 

"See you later," Miss Granger chirps as they leave. It's friendly, and again not entirely clear which of the two of them it's meant for, although Severus supposes she's a good deal more likely to see him than Miss Wilkins, particularly as the young woman is only a sixth year. He nods his acknowledgment at Miss Granger as she closes the door. Miss Wilkins, for her part, is now doing _her_ level best not to grin. 

As they proceed silently down the corridor deeper into the dungeons, he decides grinning young women leave him slightly wrong footed.

* * *

  


Ella makes every effort to keep her face neutral. She's not bad at it, not _usually_ , but the situation is proving too challenging, and she's having trouble suppressing her smirk. Nimue knows, the sight of Vince this morning had already been a bit much. She takes refuge in staring straight ahead. 

It's hardly inconspicuous. 

It's _certainly_ not natural. 

Severus has far too much experience with embarrassing situations. That's a mixed blessing. As Miss Wilkins is a good Snake, the best approach will be to ignore it and move past it. Preferably to something else. 

And there's one thing in particular he'd like to know. 

"What happened last night?" He asks directly. He's clearly spent too much time around Gryffindors lately, he thinks with an internal shudder - as though Slytherins _never_ simply asked a question - but it should do the trick. He's her Head of House, when all is said and done. 

Miss Wilkins begins to explain Crabbe had slept on a common room couch (Severus can well imagine why he preferred _that_ to his Kneazle fur laden bed), been thoroughly hexed and was now stuck there. Indeed. Somehow even _without_ prior information from the portraits or elves - and he'll be speaking to Slinky and Sunny about that curious oversight - this doesn't come as _much_ of a surprise to Severus. And it would seem they're not at all sure what's wrong with Theo... Severus interrupts her explanation, amending his question. "I meant with Madam Snape." 

Ella looks a little perplexed, as well she might. "Ah, I gather she, um, took some lumps in an altercation, and I was able to help her a bit with that." 

Severus is appalled, not that Ella could tell. While _he'd_ been indulging, Miss Granger had managed to somehow not only be _injured_ , but apparently at someone else's hand. Or wand. He can thank his lucky stars he wasn't required to act, and wonders if the Sober Up would have made enough of a difference. 

( _Of course_ it would, or he'd never have risked getting pissed in the first place. Nevertheless, he wasn't able to prevent his thoughts from worrying about that briefly, because what he _really_ needs, _so_ desperately, are still _more_ things to worry about. Cheers.)

And then he experiences a rush of relief, because maybe this means the Protection Vow isn't as problematic as he'd feared. 

Merlin... He's _never_ that lucky...

But with the way Albus has been performing of late, who knows, it may be as effective as her Loyalty Vow.  
  


A little more subtly now, although it was difficult _not_ to be more subtle than his direct question, he begins to quiz Miss Wilkins as to the Charm she performed on Miss Granger. That quickly provides him with all the information she could offer as to the injury involved. It would seem she doesn't know how it occurred. Beyond 'cursed inkpot', which is presumably the _least_ crucial detail of the events in question in light of their prevalence in the castle. 

Inkpots, that is. One might _hope_ the lot of them aren't cursed.  
  


He'll probably need to devise some tests for the Protection Vow, too, if he can think of a safe way to do so. He adds it to the list of things to tackle on the weekend. 

Joy of joys.

* * *

  


Miss Wilkins steps back as they approach the length of wall that  
will yield to give them access to the passageway to the Slytherin common room, normally only when the proper password is used. As the Head of House, Severus isn't even required to do that, for which he's grateful. The Prefects alternate setting them, and he's relieved not to need to know the name of the Falmouth Falcon's Keeper's favourite Crup or the latest Weird Sisters' single, say. 

Pure-bloods have no idea what good music is. 

Intellectually, he's always wondered if someone Polyjuiced could enter in his stead, or if it comes down to holding his wand, or perhaps both, but then he's never had anyone he'd have trusted enough to try the experiment. Not that it mattered, but he wonders, sometimes, how Salazar had crafted many of the Charms in his day. 

The wall folds back quickly in an impressive fashion as he approaches, the entrance far broader than usual to welcome the Head. The action is almost completely silent, there's only the very softest, House appropriate, hiss as the stones slot into position to form elaborate architraves around the opening that will disappear as soon as he passes. He has a sneaking suspicion that little flourish was down to Salazar's ego. All that's missing are Searing Sousaphones to announce his arrival. 

Presumably _that_ hadn't been included as he'd be less likely to take misbehaving students unawares that way... 

He's doing the Founder a minor injustice with those thoughts, but as he's only known the wizard via highly imperfect portraits, that's hardly unreasonable. 

They descend further down into the dungeons by means of this short corridor. Two lone portraits guard the entry - not all that actively - and tapestries line the walls, depicting important events and people from their House history. A diverse collection of artefacts celebrating the Snakes and their achievements are dotted in between. There's a taxidermied Golden Snidget from a World Cup centuries past, mounted Stirring Rods and Astrolabes, Charmed Axes, Pikes and Swords of Goblin Silver from the Wars, scores of Medals for Magical Merit no longer displayed in the Trophy Room, trophies from Duelling, Transfigurations and Potions Championships, and a rather ridiculous collection of Golden Snitches from every game Slytherin has ever won... In the case of the Snitches, they're displayed across most of the ceiling, too. 

Some of the girls have voiced objections. 

Severus steps out of the corridor into the common room, Miss Wilkins trailing behind. The students part before him, allowing him to pass and as they register his presence, conversation stills. 

"You don't suppose he'd be able to _fly_ with those things, do you?" The younger Hutchinson asks the Wilkes boy seated on the table next to him, not having noticed the waxing silence. 

"Don't be daft. He's far too fa..." comes the immediate and slightly impudent reply. A set of light slaps to the backs of their heads from the elder Hutchinson keeping watch behind them and a jerk of his head in Severus' direction puts an end to that thought before it can be finished. Just as well, as Vince was likely to mangle him for it had he done so. 

The students step back to give Severus better access, in the process effectively funnelling him towards one of the couches. There Crabbe lies sprawled... apparently _affixed_ , and while that's hardly surprising after what Miss Wilkins had relayed, the state of the little scrote most certainly _is_.  
  


Severus does. _Not_. Smirk. 

And promptly decides that reestablishes his bonafides as a master spy after all. 

Well, this was certainly something else. He stands there, just clear of the flapping wings, taking it in. No one says a thing as he does so. It's a strange tableau, Miss Bulstode and Goyle kneeling there before him, the Beater holding his wand in one hand and clutching... A sharpened rock? _Something_ in the other, now arrested mid-movement above Crabbe. 

It's probably too much to hope for that he'd meant to club the boy...

Presumably because it wasn't exactly the most _intuitive_ solution, it takes Severus a moment to understand Goyle had been attempting to saw Crabbe free of the couch. 

With a rock. 

That's _clearly_ the brain trust of the next generation of Death Eaters before him. 

Shoddy Transfiguration, no doubt. A brief, silent Legilimens confirms both that and the supplemental use of a Diffindo. 

Well then.

"What manner of uncultured fool takes a Cutting Charm to the furnishings?" Severus may be projecting a little; he's certainly well aware of the irony as he addresses the boy. " _That_ piece is an antique, Goyle. It was here long before you were born, before your grandfather was born, before _his_ grandfather, and in all probability even before _his_ grandfather ever set miserable foot in these rooms." He pauses for effect. No one dares make a sound. 

"You had best hope the couch remains... unscathed." 

Behind him he can hear a squeak of panic and the fourth years scrambling to slide off the Permanently Imperviused table they were perched upon, which he finds amusing. Staff aren't idiots, after all. It's charmed to excess and no more vulnerable than the seating. 

Unless someone were to take a Cutting Charm to the legs, of course. But what kind of idiot would do that?

Goyle doesn't seem able to reply. He kneels there trembling, and Severus takes that for confirmation that he got the tone right. It's a satisfactory response all around. Easily half the room appear to be holding their breaths. 

They should be collapsing soon. 

A swish of Severus' wand performs a low level scan on Crabbe, it's really only marginally better than the Discerno, and won't he be careful never to let Miss Granger learn about that. But it _does_ do somewhat more to detect the use of magic. 

Which was rather abundant here.  
  


Well, they've definitely been... thorough. 

He has to wonder that they hadn't aimed for Crabbe's bollocks, all considered. 

Perhaps they left that to him. 

His hand lifts to conceal his smirk, the pose ostensibly thoughtful. He has no doubt this is thanks to yesterday's Serpents. The coincidence would otherwise be too great. 

"Well, I imagine this will take some time," he notes dryly before turning his back on the boys and facing the rest crowded about them. Most of the House, by the look of it. 

"Ladies and gentlemen, kindly reassure me that you don't feel _this_ ," he gestures to the couch behind him, thoroughly ignoring the boy attached to it,"is an _appropriate_ use of my valuable time and not inconsiderable skills." 

He slowly looks at the group gathered there, scanning their faces one by one. Here and there are flashes of guilt, and those slight traces of guilt lead him unerringly to the parties behind the various hexes. A bit more Legilimency - it's too easy really, as their thoughts revolve around their contributions to Crabbe's state - and he knows _precisely_ who's done what. 

Hutchinson, the elder, had come up with a nice Sticking Charm. Severus knows the counter - ultimately, it's closely related to what they use on the portraits - although he imagines few here would. Of course, Severus has been at this a number of years, and if he _didn't_ know the counter, he'd simply pluck that from Hutchinson's mind as well. Well, he might have to work for it, just a little, but when merely mentioning the hexes causes them to think of it... 

Shafiq had certainly been... original. Severus hasn't seen the fairy wings before, which is saying something. It's hard to believe the boy had sat down and made an effort to _learn_ something over the summer hols, but he quite evidently had. Kudos. Severus isn't exactly shocked, however, to find Shafiq hadn't bothered learning the counter while he was about it. It hardly matters. It's enough to know which Charm was used, and Severus doesn't intend to lift it anyway. And if it _does_ prove necessary - perhaps after a month or so, he thinks facetiously, although he _very_ highly doubts it will it will even last the day - he could always look the thing up in the Restricted Section at leisure, should he ever wish to. Although he's having difficulty imagining himself wishing to... For the moment, at any rate, the wings are a very nice change of pace. 

Avery had gone creatively dark, just on the border of what would require serious action on staff's part with that Desiccation Charm of his. He's a cousin of Anthony's, and that line of the family had always been a good deal more... sinister than Anthony ever was. It appears to be a novel reapplication of a Charm normally used to keep the goods in which his family trades properly acclimatised. Used on a _person_ as he'd done, it should be deserving of an ASBO if anyone's hexes were. 

Well, and Burke's, of course. There was almost definitely no legitimate reason for the charm to stitch a _mouth_ shut; it wasn't simply a sewing Charm misused. Not at all. No, Severus recognises what remains of the stitches. He's seen it before. It's for shrinking heads. 

Interesting family, the Burkes.  
  


But what he wasn't quite expecting as he looks from face to face and mind to mind is to discover on so many of their parts the conviction they're _avenging_ him. Or at the least, they believe the hexes were performed by others to do so.  
  


He's... 

He's... _touched_. 

Some took advantage of the situation to hex Crabbe, naturally - he couldn't blame them - but still... 

_The little blighters thought they had his back._  
  


He won't be punishing a one of them.

  



	95. 11 12h Wednesday - In Action

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Severus (HoS) and Hermione_
> 
> _**Seventh Years** _   
>  _Draco 7S (Prefect, Team Captain, Seeker, Swot), Theo Nott 7S (Swottiest, Nervous Wreck), Blaise Zabini 7S (Keeper (but only in the Quidditch sense...)), Vincent 'Vince' Crabbe 7S (Beater, Winged Couch Potato), Gregory Goyle 7S (Beater)_
> 
> _Tracey Davis 7S (Swottier), Daphne Greengrass 7S (Sparkly!), Pansy Parkinson 7S (Prefect), Millicent 'Millie' Bulstrode (Reserve Beater, yes,_ that. _), Alberta Runcorn 7S (Grumpy.)_
> 
> __**Sixth Years**  
>  _Harper Hutchinson 6S (Prefect, Chaser, flash Robe Model), Ella Wilkins 6S (Prefect), Flora Carrow 6S (friendly twin), Hestia Carrow 6S (Chaser, sporty twin)_
> 
> __  
> **Others**  
>  _Hunter Hutchinson 4S (Imp, Delivery Boy), Wilfred Wilkes 4S, the Bloody Baron (House Ghost, the strong, silent type)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> __  
>  **Portraits**   
>  _Headmaster Phineas Nigellus Black (HoS), Salazar Slytherin (Founder, HoS), Swaine Swoopstikes (timeless Potions Master, Professor and Entomologist, HoS), Wilhelmina Wilkes (DADA Instructor, Chess Queen, HoS)_
> 
> _**Mentioned:** Aaron Avery 6S (Reserve Chaser), Tomasina Touchstone 5S (Prefect, Potions savvy heiress) _

"Mr. Wilkes," Severus addresses the fourth year, "would you kindly go the Great Hall and fetch the Headmaster? Ask him to go to my storeroom and obtain a bottle," with a pointed glance at Crabbe, he expands theatrically, "a _large_ bottle of Universal Solvent to remedy this... situation." Of course there's only the one bottle, and the stuff is about as 'universal' as a General Purpose Healing Charm, but what's in a name? He expects Crabbe won't know that. "You may remain there to take your meal once you've relayed the message." It doesn't sound like a suggestion. 

Wilfred thinks he'll be missing the fun, but has no wish to argue. Merlin, he's not a _numbskull_. Grabbing his books from the table he'd already vacated, with a quick nudge of Hunter's ribs and a hissed, "Tell me _everything_ ," he scarpers. 

Millie, good friend that she is, or at least _tries_ to be, screws up the courage to ask, "Sir? ' _Universal_ Solvent'... is that.. _safe_?" 

"It shouldn't harm the dragon hide in the least," Severus is exceedingly quick to reassure them. Hunter and a few of the third and fourth years can't help but snicker softly, poor Wilfred really _will_ miss the fun. "It might leave Crabbe moderately... abraded, but that's a risk I'm... willing to take. 

"Needs must, Miss Bulstrode. Needs must."

Turning to face the group once more, he decides it's time to put an end to this. As much as he appreciates the gesture - and he very much does, bless their cold-blooded hearts - this is very likely to cause him a great deal more work and eventually threaten his cover if he doesn't quash their little uprising, and quickly. 

"I believe that's enough everyone. I'm certain you've all had quite the eyeful by now. Not that I can entirely... _blame_ you," he drawls with a deliberately disdainful look in Crabbe's direction. Not that a lack of a specific motive to do so usually stops him from looking at the boy disdainfully, certainly not, but he finds himself particularly... motivated this morning. "But if you don't leave soon, you will either be late for classes or need to skip your meal." An overly demonstrative Tempus amply illustrates his point. It's a manoeuvre he's nicked from Minerva. But then she nicked it from Albus. Teachers. One might argue they haven't any original thoughts between themselves either... 

"I shouldn't need to remind students of your ages to _eat_. Useful thing, food. I recommend it highly." And he does _not_ think of Miss Granger trying to feed him up as he says it. 

Well, not more than briefly.

* * *

  


Their reluctance quickly becomes audible, but that doesn't change the fact they recognise the sense in what he says. Most present take up their books and with last, longing glances in Vince's direction, they head for the exit. Not a one of them failed to notice that the Professor actually _hasn't_ blamed a single one of them for this. They're counting their blessings and leaving before he feels compelled to change his mind. 

The obstinacy of the Sticking Charm, for instance, was more than likely to do the trick.

And as half of them know, there _was_ no known countercharm for the wings...

Róisín and Val join the sixth year boys other than Harper as they leave. Harper stays behind, hoping his Prefect status will justify his hanging about to watch a little longer. The fact he's standing there _polishing_ his badge of office where it's attached to his robes rather emphasises that. Harper can be _extremely_ subtle, but unlike most Slytherins, he's very comfortable with the fact it isn't always required. 

And if it all goes tits up, he may yet need to tell Professor Snape which Charm he'd used to stick Vince to the couch. He'd really rather not, obviously, but he assumes the inevitable punishment would still be preferable to whatever would rain down upon them as a group if he allowed the furniture to be damaged in the process of freeing the Beater. 

Merlin, with a bit of luck, he could probably even get away with a non-verbal Finite Incantatem if no one were looking. But he'd sort of like to leave it to the last possible moment if he can...

Severus informs Crabbe and his little entourage, "I'll see to Nott first and return. Goyle, you'll lay down your... rock in the meantime." 

Gregory just kneels there blinking. At a prodding from Millie, he finally manages a, "Yes, Sir," but Severus is no longer paying him any attention. It most definitely hadn't been a suggestion either, and he trusts even Goyle will have received the message, loud and clear.

Ella hesitates for another moment, uncertain if she should escort the Head back to the boys' room. She'd been sent to get him after all... Either he recognises that fact, or, more likely, engages in just the most casual Legilimency. "I appreciate your alerting me to the situation, Miss Wilkins, but I'm quite sure I can find my own way from here. Why don't you join the others and get something to eat?"

She flashes him a smile of thanks, "As long as you don't mind, Sir," and quickly takes stock of who is left in the room. She still needs to fetch her things, and calls out to Hestia and Flora as they're about to follow the others, "Would you mind waiting for me while I get my books?" They readily agree, stopping by the archway to the exit corridor. She'd deposited her belongings on one of the small tables between the wing chairs by the windows when Harper had come to get her, and it won't take her long to retrieve them. 

Alberta and Millie are still standing by Vince's couch, but there's not much left for them to do here. Alberta tells the sixth year girls she'll join them, and then asks Millie, "Are you coming, too?"

Gregory, now sitting idly on the floor next to Vince, answers, _not_ that he was addressed. "I'm going to stay and try to help." Alberta snorts at the notion, but whether she doubts that _he_ could actually prove helpful or just can't believe that anyone should still wish to help _Vince_ is unclear. "Millie?" He prompts, a little hopefully. Gregory has a nice smile. It's gentle, somewhat at odds with his bulky, muscular physique, and actually reaches his eyes. That's understandably been something of a rarity in the House in recent years. Smiles have become scarce and _when_ they occur far too often are tight. 

This morning's giggle has been good for them all. Well, except Vince and the other seventh year boys, obviously. 

Vince groans dramatically before Millie can respond, possibly to emphasise his need for help. All that it needs is a hand clapped forlornly to his forehead, but then that's hard to do when his entire arm is stuck to the couch. On the other hand, he really hasn't got the energy to do much more than groan this morning. It's been a... difficult night. 

"I guess I'll stay, too," Millie replies, and Alberta snorts anew, a touch more faintly this time. Lifting her chin a bit higher in defiance, the Reserve Beater continues, "To lend moral support if nothing else." She has enough people questioning her abilities as it is, ta. 

"Suit yourself," Alberta shrugs, but a couple of the girls present think they're going to have to talk to Millie about how to deal with the boys and especially Vince. 

_That_ , however, will suit Millie just fine, as it will give her an opening to talk about not sabotaging their Quidditch team before the big match. She'll have her work cut out for her, though; the girls as a whole aren't nearly as invested in the sport. The Avada argument will ultimately be that the game is against the _Moggies_ , and the House Cup Theft of '92 will hang like a spectre over them until the rest fold. 

People underestimate Millie all the time. 

Hestia's ears perk at the exchange, and she huffs her disapproval, "Millie really ought to eat something for breakfast." When her twin lifts a brow in query, she explains, "We're planning to practice all through lunch."

That's all it takes. Flora in turn grabs Hunter from the thinning stream of people trickling past and asks him if he'd mind going for food. He's both more comfortable and more familiar with the sixth years than the other fourth years are thanks to Harper and Ella, likewise _they're_ more aware of him. That can sometimes be a mixed blessing. 

"Oh, and we'll need something for me and Tracey to eat for lunch, too. We'll be brewing," she tells him. "You know how to perform a Stasis Charm, don't you?" He affirms it, his chest puffing a little in pride. 

Alberta, who has now come to join them on his other side, points out, "The other seventh year girls are probably still back there in the boys' wing. I haven't seen them leave anyway, so they must be. You should probably bring something for them too." 

Hunter, doing the numbers, is beginning to wonder just how he's going to carry all of this as he deposits his things on a nearby table. Flora recognises the look on his face - it was that or gastrointestinal issues - and chuckles, she pulls her books out of her satchel and hands it to him, "It has an Extension Charm on it. Just put a Protego on the food and it'll be fine."

"And where should I leave the bag and your lunches?" 

Ella returns as they're still working out the details, and the group leaves the dungeons together. When Flora asks, Ella is able to confirm Daphne, Tracey and Pansy should still be back in the boys' rooms, at least if they haven't walked past Alberta anyhow, and that resolves the list. Somehow the usually so detail oriented Prefect completely neglects to mention Theo, Draco or Blaise. Of course, Hunter for his part had already decided to bring nothing for Vince or Gregory. Great minds...

"Well, there you go, you can just leave the bag with Tracey then, and she'll take care of it. Sorted. Thanks, Hunter. I really appreciate it," Flora tells him. Contrary to what Aaron might think, it transpires that younger Snakes are still happy to fag for the senior students if they only treat them with kindness and respect. Of course, that might be asking too much of an Avery. 

Hunter darts on ahead with his all too typical zeal, all that's missing are 'whooping' noises, and Flora doesn't bother to stifle her smile. 

Ella's is even broader. He and Harper really are the closest things to brothers she could have. Growing up with them, she hadn't felt like an only child. Secretly she suspects she's gotten the better deal this way, it's surely easier than real siblings would have been because she was usually able to withdraw when they were being too... _boy_ -like. Of course, that was generally more true of Harper than Hunter. 

Hunter is sort of in a class of his own.  
  


Vince's condition is the natural topic of conversation as they go, and an enjoyable one at that. Their little group hasn't even reached the Great Hall when Hunter comes racing back past them. What he lacks in a sense of decorum - pretty much everything - he more than compensates for with his unbridled enthusiasm.

* * *

  


Draco is fitter, by far, when Severus enters the room than he had expected. For that matter, he's fitter than Draco _himself_ had expected, although he _is_ visibly dragging. Hell, even his teeth hurt. Theo on the other hand, is inexplicably nigh comatose, and no one seems to know why...  
  


One of Severus' first acts as Head of House had been to Charm the curtains around the students' beds to be nightmare proof. That's not to say the occupants don't have nightmares. _That_ would have been useful, and Severus can only wish he commanded that sort of magic. But it _does_ ensure their moans or screams can't be heard beyond their privacy curtains. It had been tricky getting the Charm right, given Salazar Slytherin's Charm on the girls' wing; he hadn't meant to interfere with its intentions. It had been difficult making sure that the Charm only mutes sounds when the occupants are asleep. 

But after the first war, there were plenty who needed it. The war had gone on longer, been more subtle. He could have used something like that _himself_ after all; he was happy to be able to provide it for his charges. 

This was one of his personal variations on a Privacy Charm. 

Involuntarily, his thoughts turn to Miss Granger as he thinks of it, and to her request... She hadn't asked _much_ , and she certainly wasn't asking him for such a Charm to keep things from _him_. That rather defeats the point if he knows what she's using. Added to that, the bond seems to make secrets increasingly more difficult to keep... 

But he just doesn't want to set a precedent and shakes the contemplations off.  
  


Given the Charms in place, it's of little surprise that he doesn't hear Nott's moans until he pulls back the boy's curtains. What's surprising is the volume and frequency of those moans. The boy really isn't doing well, and the students were right, naturally. He doesn't respond to normal stimuli. 

Miss Greengrass, the elder, timidly approaches Severus, "Sir, may I speak to you a moment? Privately?" He silently flicks up a Muffliato, but uses his wand, which lets her know he's done something along those lines. 

"Here will do?" He asks. She nods. "What seems to be the problem, Miss Greengrass?"

A mite haltingly, she tells him Nott had been very upset the evening before, and of her concerns that his present state could be related to the Somnolence Charm she'd used to try to help him. She's very worried for the boy and _mortified_ that she might have harmed him. Severus has the sense that both of those fears far outweigh her trepidation that he might punish her for it, and she hasn't hesitated to confess her possible involvement at the first opportunity, just on the off chance it might help him solve the problem. 

It strikes him that Nott's lucky to have a friend like that. 

Anyone would be. 

He reassures her, although at this point he can't say for certain if she'd made matters worse or not. That's secondary. But the Charm is at the forefront of her thoughts, so much so he's not even sure he'd performed the Legilimens that permits him to see it. "I'm quite sure that wasn't the cause of the problem, Miss Greengrass, but I'll look into the matter and let you know, shall I?" 

He hadn't considered the Somnolence Charm when he was making suggestions to Miss Granger the other morning, and this has just given him an idea. It might not, however, be _much_ of a solution if it leaves the target of the Charm in Nott's state. That would hardly be a... desirable result. He looks at the boy and has to struggle not to shake his head. Miss Greengrass is distressed enough as it is. 

"Thank you for telling me," he attempts to put an end to her hovering. 

She stands there uncertainly for a moment longer, waiting for the punishment she's half sure must come, if only because she couldn't say for sure what she'd done _hadn't_ caused this. At the moment she doesn't seem to understand that's true of a significant portion of students' Charms. 

He demonstratively flicks the Muffliato away, and blinking a bit numbly, she finally realises she's dismissed. She's not sure she should feel relieved. She'll save that for when Theo wakes up. 

Fortunately she won't have to wait long. 

Experience can make a real difference in confronting problems and in how one views the solutions. Severus doesn't consider long, he Stupefies the boy and then performs a Rennervate. It does the trick almost instantly. 

Unfortunately, most tend to think of a Stupefy as a mis-classed hex, and it also leaves the others a little confused as to where Theo stands. That's practically _guaranteed_ to worsen his treatment at the hands of his Housemates in the near future.  
  


Theo wakes with a scream, it sounds tortured but not exactly... painful. There's a rawness and a _fear_ about it that shrieks of other concerns than his physical well being, and in fact his mental health is what's at issue here. Very much so. 

Theo was never built for the situation he finds himself in and it all too frequently shows. 

Images of Muggle-borns have haunted him all night. The looming, laughing faces of his roommates - all in Death Eater robes most don't even own - provided no respite, and if anything he's more exhausted than he was before he'd slept. He looks like death warmed over. 

He feels like it, too. 

Severus holds his ground observing, the others - without exception - recoil from the boy. The degree of that shying is dependent on the nerves of the individual. Draco had managed to make his flinching hardly noticeable. He's seen rather a lot in the past year and a half. His best friend screaming as though his very soul were being torn from his breast? All in an average Death Eater's day. 

"You need to leave," Theo wails as his eyes finally regain their ability to focus and he spots Daphne. "You can't be here."

She's heard this song before. And Pansy comes in with the refrain, not so unlike Daphne had done last night. "We most certainly _can_ , obviously. You've overslept, Theo. Curfew is over." It's simple, matter of fact, but watching Theo now register in horror that Pansy and Tracey are there as well, Daphne begins to understand this wasn't about mistaking the time or thinking it was past curfew.

Keening, Theo curls into a pugilistic pose, his fists clenched, his arms drawn protectively close to his body, rocking slightly back and forth, self-soothing and seeking futilely to shield himself from the demons within. 

Pansy huffs in derision. Of the people who had any right to feel poorly this morning, Theo is dead last, she is sure. Blaise agrees, by and large. Tracey isn't quite sure what to make of it, but Severus finds Malfoy's and Miss Greengrass' responses the most interesting. He'd expect Miss Greengrass to become more concerned for her friend in the face of this reaction. 

She does not. 

Her concern remains much the same, but additionally she's... puzzled. 

And Malfoy... Malfoy feels guilty. He isn't meeting Severus' eyes, or anyone else's for that matter. He stares at the floor, but Severus can read his expression well enough. He saves that investigation for later. 

"Theo..." Tracey tries to reason with him, but he only responds by again insisting the girls must leave. 

" _Now!_ "

Those claims and in part Miss Greengrass' reaction lead Severus to try another bit of Legilimency on the young woman, and, yes, Nott had apparently made much the same claim yesterday... She's beginning to question _why_. He makes a point of seeking Theo's gaze - it's wild, darting all about - Merlin knows, the boy isn't even _trying_ to avoid eye contact with him, and soon he's determined what's going on. 

_Seventh years. Jones and Perks, Smith, whatever. Hufflepuffs. MacDougal. Ravenclaw. Granger, Madam Snape. Gryffindor. Sixth years Rosenkrantz and Kilkenny, Devi, whatever. Gryffindor. Randle. Ravenclaw. Fifth years. A Gryffindor and a Hufflepuff. Fourth years. Gryffindor and Hufflepuff. Seventh years. Jones and Perks, Smith, whatever. Hufflepuffs..._

Severus can well imagine why Nott seems compelled to continually list the Muggle-born witches at Hogwarts. Isn't it just Severus' luck that the only one of the boys he _doesn't_ wish were wracked with guilt is driving himself half mad with it. 

He may need to take it easier on the lad in the days to come. 

The Incendioed Charms assignment might just have crossed his mind as he thinks it. He sighs inwardly.

* * *

  


It is most certainly _not_ in Severus' interests to have others begin to speculate about the things Nott seems to be worrying about. It will unquestionably make Miss Granger's life more difficult. While she certainly neither deserves nor needs that, and that's probably reason enough, the _fact_ of the matter is thanks to Albus' ever so helpful meddling and their thrice damned bond, if _she's_ antagonised, _he's_ antagonised. _Neither_ of them can use this. 

He adds that to his list of reasons to Avada Albus. And then notes (only half facetiously) that it's gotten _much_ longer this week. If this is what Albus had wanted, he should have had Severus bonded from the outset. He'd have been a great deal less disinclined to embrace the old sod's murderous plan...

He shifts his gaze to Malfoy, who eventually feels the force of it and looks up briefly. It does nothing more than get Severus the idea of a letter - without the content - before Draco's mind and eyes shutter and he closes his thoughts to him fairly effectively. Bellatrix's work, beyond any doubt. But it had been enough. Draco seems to have given a letter to Nott to read and there's a good deal of guilt attached. Severus stands there with his arms crossed in front of him, his posture radiating disapproval, and Draco squirms at the sight, but Severus gestures slightly with one finger towards Theo, and the blond nods. He knows he needs to sort this. 

Severus will give him as bit of a hand doing so, purely out of self interest. He needs to reduce the problems on his plate. Turning to the witches, he says, "I think it would be for the best if you three were to leave now. Nott is quite evidently rather agitated, and undoubtedly the more people present, the worse that's likely to manifest." If none of them think to question if Nott's issue is with _witches_ instead of people, he'll be lucky. 

When is he ever lucky?

Not having anything constructive to offer at this point, and sensitive to the fact the Head probably isn't in the best of moods, the girls leave the room at his suggestion without balking. Pansy doesn't go far, waiting by the door, "I'm going to stay here, in case he'll allow us back in." She'd rather like to see if she can convince Draco to expand on the Oath he'd given Tracey, and, fine, she's somewhat annoyed _Tracey_ had been the one to... coax it out of him. (At the tip of her outraged finger...) And if not him, perhaps Blaise. _Someone_ knows something, of this Pansy is sure. And _she's_ just the witch to uncover it. Knowledge is power, in the final analysis. 

Wouldn't her father be proud?  
  


Tracey had understood the fact Draco had sworn he _couldn't_ tell her more meant he _wouldn't_ be any more forthcoming. That's a dead end. There's little point to waiting around for that reason. And despite Draco's Oath, she's still a little unsure about how much she should even be _trying_ to help. She'll need to give it some thought. Draco excels at finding loopholes. She was determined not to support _any_ of the boys, not substantially, and she needs to be absolutely sure he hasn't left himself some escape clause before she goes out of her way to assist Theo. 

With some hope of still being able to get something to eat, especially as she knows she'll be missing lunch, she says as much to the other girls and begins to head back towards the common room, pausing only to ask, "Daph, are you coming?"

Daphne hesitates for a moment, torn between waiting with Pansy and going with Tracey. As the only one to know this isn't just a momentary hitch with Theo, she suspects that her presence, the _girls'_ presences really _are_ making things worse for her friend. 

The Head's here to take care of it, and she trusts him. Certainly his capabilities. And if Draco had been right, and he _had_ to have been if he swore that Oath, then Professor Snape probably has no reason to be angry at Theo... She's not happy about it, but she thinks Tracey's probably got the right idea here. And if she herself is right with her suspicions about what's going on with Theo, the Head probably won't let them back in the room anyway. With a somewhat heavy heart, especially in light of the implications, she answers, "Yes, I'm right behind you."

* * *

  


Hunter comes huffing in to the common room with his bag full of food and, rather unexpectedly, _very_ cautiously bearing a - _large_ \- jar of Universal Solvent. He'd encountered Professor Dumbledore leaving the Potions classroom on his return from the Great Hall and been pressed into service. As 'luck' would have it, or perhaps not, as Albus could just as easily have sent Miss Touchstone - who was also close by at the time (although headed in the other direction) - he _just so happened_ to select someone who isn't incredibly versed in Potions... 

It can be safely assumed that he'd seen through Severus' little panto and had done his best to lend it some credibility. 

"Professor Dumbledore asked me to bring Professor Snape some Universal Solvent?" There are beads of sweat forming on his brow, and his nervousness transmits easily to those gathered around the couch. Harper spots that, and comes over to relieve his little brother. 

But not Vince. 

"Oh, Merlin!" Harper gasps, sounding just as alarmed as he possibly can as he takes it off Hunter's hands. "That's some _incredibly_ dangerous stuff. You _really_ shouldn't be handling it." He shakes his head gravely but with his back now to Vince he's able to give Hunter a sly wink. Hunter is quite used to these games and relaxes instantly. But for all his characteristic ebullience, he's far from a rubbish Snake; he doesn't even crack a grin. 

"Well, I _wouldn't_ have done, wild Thestrals, not if I'd had any choice. But the _Headmaster_ asked me. What was I supposed to say?" Turning a little dramatically to their three Housemates gathered _on_ and around the couch, he solemnly intones, "I couldn't let him think Slytherins would run scared."

The two currently able nod at the sense of this. Not entirely gormless, the younger Hutchinson. 

"No, of course not," Harpers replies, biting the inside of his cheek. "I bet old Dumblebore was just too scared to transport the stuff himself." As if he couldn't have used a Wingardium Leviosa if it came to that. Not one of the three by the couch point out a _Firsties'_ charm would have sorted the problem nicely. Simpletons. 

Harper carries the bottle to the nearest table as though he were walking on eggshells, hamming it up for all he's worth - he's not bad at that, really - and he could swear he spots Vince breaking out in a flop sweat. He sets it down, oh so gingerly, and then sighs in mock-relief. 

It did the trick. All three seventh years have blanched. Job done, and well. 

Tracey and Daphne return as he's standing there trying to assess the damage done. It occurs to him he really _should_ check if the stuff is likely to blemish the dragon hide or not. He may need to put an end to this sooner than not if so. It just so happens Davis is the only one of the seventh year girls in N.E.W.T. Potions... 

"Tracey, just the witch." Harper heads her off for a quickly whispered consult. It's Daph's turn to wait for her friend, and she stands there patiently on the dais. It doesn't take Tracey long to reassure Harper - once he explains what the Head supposedly wanted to use the stuff for - that the glorified Cleaning Potion isn't going to leave _any_ kind of a mark on the furniture. It _is_ , however, a _notorious_ skin irritant. Neither laughs, they're too clever for that. But they're smirking when they return to Daphne.  
  


Hunter was just trying to figure out how to give Millie her breakfast without offering any to Vince or Gregory - when he _clearly_ has more - and in the process somehow - magically? - _not_ merit himself a pounding later from Vince. As luck would have it, Flora's plan hadn't covered this. Shy of a Confundus that Hunter doesn't know how to perform, he hasn't got any practical ideas. (He has _scores_ of _impractical_ ones, but they so rarely help. _Emetic Elixir, Eyelash-gluing Hex, Imperiuses - either now or later, Peruvian Instant Darkness powder, Revulsion Jinx, Tickling Charm, Wretching Potion... In no particular order._ ) And not that Vince was exactly in any position to eat of his own accord, but someone could probably hold a pastie for him as he lies there... 

Asking Harper, for once, isn't likely to be as helpful as he'd like, and Hunter hesitates to do so. Harper would probably just walk right up, bold as brass, hand the pasties to Millie and refuse to give the boys anything, despite the beating he'd probably take once Vince is mobile again. (Hunter isn't the only Snake this morning to think how... nice it would be if they could just _leave_ him there. Definitely decorative.) It feels like Hunter would be setting Harper up for that kind of abuse. Or an ambush. Probably that. Merlin knows, the one for the picture alone should be bad enough. 

Most other people would just hex you. Pansy is the tiniest witch in her year, but you _still_ don't want to get her angry. She's quick with her wand and she'll happily hex you six ways from Sunday. Now Vince, on the other hand, he's perfectly happy to use his fists, just nut a person, or use any other equally blunt instrument he can lay hands on. 

Hunter's dithering there undecided when Daphne enters, and the sight of her cheers him right up, because she's _just_ the Snake to understand his problem. Freed of the solvent, he's back to his usual self and darts right up to her. In a low whisper he explains he's brought them food. 

"I even have your lunch," he tells Tracey as she rejoins them, Harper shadowing her. She blinks only once in surprise. "Right. And you're supposed to take Flora's bag and give it back to her at lunch." And now she figures out how he knew she'd be brewing later. 

"Thank you, Hunter," Daphne beams at him, genuinely pleased. "You're an absolute love." Tracey simply nods her agreement. 

Turning to her, Daphne suggests, "I could go bring Pansy something, if you'll talk Millie into joining us back in our room? If we eat there, I think that should avoid causing any... hard feelings with the boys. And then you can just leave Flora's bag and your lunch there. There's no need to carry it around all morning." Agreeing, Tracey goes to get Millie. It doesn't take the blonde much work to convince her to join them for a few minutes. Looking at Hunter, Daphne asks, "Don't you need to get something out for yourself?"

Hunter considers for a moment. The gesture isn't worth quite as much if it doesn't get noticed by the right people, but then again, he wants to avoid the _wrong_ kind of notice. It's a delicate balance, but he thinks he has it. "Is Professor Snape still back there?" He asks with a jerk of his head towards the boys' wing. Daphne tells him he is. He stands up just as straight as he can. "If you'll take the bag, I'll give Pansy her breakfast," he assures her with a slightly mischievous gleam to his eyes. Harper watches him appraisingly. He knows he's up to something, but he trusts his little brother's judgment in most things. 

Just maybe not in his choice of friends... 

Hunter removes two napkins of pasties from Flora's satchel and then hands it to Daphne. 

"I don't suppose you happened to bring anything for me?" Harper asks.

Hunter looks at him a little balefully and then at the pasties in his hands, "I thought you'd go to breakfast..."

"Yeah. Rotten luck," he shrugs. "We're skipping lunch for practice."

Daph, who was in the process of leaving for her room, stops immediately and asks them, "Do you want some of mine?"

Both boys shake their heads. "There's still time to make it to the Great Hall," Harper assures her. "And I doubt it would be... smart for us to eat out here," he adds with a look towards Vince.

"It's not like you couldn't join us." Her eye roll is practically audible. For Daphne, _that's_ saying something. 

"We're fine, Daph, but thank you. There's really no sense everyone being hungry. And we _will_ make it to breakfast on time." She looks at him disbelievingly until he pulls his wand and does a Tempus. "See?" He gives her a wink and laughs. 

Tracey rejoins them with Millie now beside her, "I thought we wanted to show Millie that... thing?"

"Right. Of course. Last chance, boys?" But the Hutchinsons shake their heads and watch the girls head off up the stairs towards the seventh years' room. 

Millie can still be heard, "But I don't follow. Why did you have to show me _now_?" as they disappear from sight.  
  


After they unpack and distribute their breakfasts, Tracey, unsure if Hunter had done so or not, casts a Stasis on their lunches and puts them and Flora's bag in her bedside table. She locks it, just in case.

* * *

  


Once the girls leave the room, Theo calms down. Severus had rather thought he might. He lies there on the bed, unclenching, his breathing slowly evening out. 

Severus pulls Draco aside and flicks up another non-verbal Muffliato. "Well, Draco? What were you hoping to achieve?"

"His father owled him yesterday that he was proud of him." Severus doesn't bother trying to disguise his scepticism, but Draco nods, signalling his understanding. "Quite reasonably, it threw Theo, too. He was struggling to grasp his role in... what happened Friday. And trying to rally members of the House to... modify their behaviour towards... Madam Snape." Draco is naturally cautious in mentioning her after the Crucios he'd endured Monday evening, but Severus merely raises a brow at that. This sounds like yet _another_ thing he'll need to keep an eye on. How lovely. 

"I thought some information might help, especially as word _will_ eventually get out, and it's better for Theo if he hasn't ventured too far out on a limb that won't begin to support him when that time inevitably comes." 

Severus can't decide if doesn't occur to Draco how it might affect Miss Granger, or if he simply has developed sufficient situational awareness not to try to pretend he's suddenly concerned for her welfare. Severus doesn't bother trying to find out. 

"Well, that's gone swimmingly," he sums it up. 

"There were unforseen... complications," Draco allows, a hint of humbleness about him. 

"You mean to tell me that in all your years of acquaintance, you've never happened to notice that Nott is cursed with something that could pass for a conscience?"

"Perhaps I... underappreciated the magnitude of that... curse."

"That would appear to be understating the problem." He sighs. He knows that Theo doesn't know which witch was involved or he wouldn't be focusing on them all. It's best if it stays that way for the time being. And he very much does _not_ need Nott sharing his half-knowledge with others. "I expect _you_ to see to it that the information you... shared remains _contained_ and the... situation is not further... _aggravated_. Am I understood?" Draco's lips form a thin line and he nods his comprehension. "Don't disappoint me. _Again_."

With a flick of his fingers, Severus ends the Muffliato and turns to Theo. Blaise perks up a little at finally being able to hear what's going on. Then again, they're fairly accustomed to missing the interesting half of any given conversation. Had they any Muggle-raised in their circle of friends, someone might have long ago introduced them to the concept of lip reading, but as (so-called) mundane health issues aren't a concern in their world, neither are their coping strategies. 

"Nott, you can't in all earnestness expect _me_ to excuse you from classes. Get ready, _now_ , or you'll be late to Charms."

It works like a cold shower. Theo may not be sure which witch they harmed, but they most _certainly_ have wronged this particular wizard. The seventh year has no desire in the least to exacerbate that. He bolts upright. Severus had rather thought he might do that as well. "Malfoy..." he drawls, "you've certainly made a royal mess of things. _Take care of him._ I need to... see to Crabbe." 

Draco understands the unspoken message. He's sworn to secrecy, Theo is not. For the moment at least, the fewer who know what happened, the less trouble they're likely to be in. From the sound of things, they're in _enough_ trouble already. It's in all their interests to make sure Theo doesn't speak to anyone else about this. 

Draco knows what to do.  
  


The Professor makes to leave the room and Blaise hurries to gather his things and follow, because, seriously, who _wouldn't_ want to watch this? All the same, he trails behind at a discrete distance, eager not to attract _too_ much of the Head's notice. 

As Severus exits the room, he encounters Miss Parkinson, apparently hoping to be readmitted. It won't help Nott, and Malfoy has some things he needs to manage in peace. Severus will simply redirect the young woman. "Miss Parkinson, a word?" He keeps walking past her, and she's forced to fall into step beside him in order to have that word. It's an effective measure. With Zabini in the rear, it makes for an odd little procession. "Can you explain why you weren't on patrol last night?"

"Draco was... indisposed, and so I arranged to swap patrol duty with the Hufflepuffs." 

He stops now to look at her. "And what reason did you give?"

She quirks her eyebrow at him, not nearly as effectively as Millie does, but Pansy's getting there. "They had the late Saturday patrol this week and were only too happy to do so, no questions asked."

"Well considered, Miss Parkinson. I apologise for doubting you." 

"Not at all, Sir. We should have let you know, but the last few days..." 

"Quite. Least said, soonest mended I should think as to that, don't you agree?" A pointed look suggests that she may not wish to go digging into the details of the past weekend, either, and she finds herself re-evaluating her plans. "But I appreciate your handling the matter so deftly." He proceeds to the stairs and sweeps down them in his typically imposing manner. Miss Parkinson and Zabini follow, dwarfed by his presence.  
  


As they step down from the dais into the common room, Hunter heads towards them. "Pansy, I have some breakfast for you," he extends a hand towards her bearing a pastie wrapped in a napkin. 

"Hey, Hunter, where's mine?" Blaise challenges, his annoyance as clear as his sense of entitlement. 

"There was a limit to how much I could carry," Hunter shrugs. " _You_ didn't order any, and I, uh, had to prioritise." He squares his little shoulders as he stands there, just as defiantly as he dares. " _I_ haven't even had anything yet." 

"Lighten up, Blaise. You're in good company. He didn't bring me anything either," Harper holds out his hands, patently empty. It serves it's intended purpose, placating the seventh year. It's hard to be angry with the boy when he hasn't even fed himself or his family. 

A little tentatively, Hunter now approaches Professor Snape and offers him a napkin with a couple of pasties. "I imagine if you're _here_ , you're missing out on your breakfast, Sir. I'm very sorry about that." In as much as he'd been one of the boys involved in charming Vince's nails black, the apology makes some sense to Severus. Not, he supposes, that he'd have been called in for something merely cosmetic. 

"Thank you, Hutchinson," he says, taking the food, and correctly reading that this is a deliberate snub against the seventh years. Well he has no intention of telling them he'd breakfasted and leaving the pasties unclaimed for them to eat. "That was very considerate." The boy beams. He reminds Severus a little of Miss Granger as he does so, although it's a draw if that's primarily down to the smile or the food. "You haven't eaten?" Hunter shakes his head. "Then see that you do. Off with you." The fourth year fetches his books from the table by the archway. 

The elder Hutchinson likewise retrieves his books and joins him, and they enter the corridor that leads up out of the dungeons together. Severus eyes his trousers as he walks past. They're getting short again; that boy just keeps growing. Sadly, not feeding him any more probably isn't an option... (Although he's tried recommending that for students more than a few times over the years... Pomona still doesn't seem to be sure if he's serious or not.) For Merlin's sake, he'd only adjusted the hem length two months ago. He supposes he himself had grown in much the same fashion. 

That wasn't the only similarity. 

On the boy's first day of school six years ago, he'd appeared in robes - impossibly - in a worse state than Severus' had been when _he'd_ been sorted. He'd never seen anything like it before. At the time, they were too long by far, sun faded, and _very_ clearly used. Badly, at that. They had more than a few holes, imperfectly mended, and Severus knew all too well the sort of welcome the boy could expect to face. He assumed, correctly, that would probably be the best of the bunch, too. He'd summoned the first year to his office that very same evening, Argus had already had his trunk brought there. 

It transpired Hutchinson hadn't even had the required three sets of robes, merely a pair. Without elaboration, Severus had Transfigured the robes the boy wore, shortening and darkening them, mending the holes he could see, and thickening the threadbare patches. Then he asked him to unpack his trunk and promptly Transfigured the extra set of robes within. When he discovered the third set was missing, he'd Geminioed them. And then he shifted his attention to the boy's shoes and cloak. 

'In the future, you will disregard the school's instructions and purchase only _one_ set of robes, the best you are able, and bring them to me when you return after the holidays. No one needs to know of our arrangement.' When the boy, nearly moved to tears, had been about to thank him, he'd added, 'There's no need to thank me, Hutchinson. Your appearance reflects on your House. Now go, make your House proud.' It was curt enough that the boy wasn't entirely certain if this was normal behaviour or not. Looking at the state of the clothing of students in other Houses, though, he had his suspicions. 

It was something Slugghorn could have done for Severus in his day and hadn't. Maybe there was a component of proving he was better than Horace, or how easy it would have been for him to have done the right thing. Or maybe it was just a question of knowing what it meant to be dirt poor and shamed for it. Most probably, it was a combination of those reasons. Either way, he's been doing it ever since, and when the younger Hutchinson started school, he'd continued the practice with him as well. 

Severus isn't remotely sure how this year will go for him, but he thinks his time is running out. Certainly his time as the boys' Head of House is coming to a close. The older lad is of age now, he turned seventeen last month. He'll be allowed to perform magic at home. This is something Severus can sort before he goes. 

"Hutchinson," he calls out, and both boys turn, but Severus' gaze gives it away and Harper stops in his tracks. "I expect to see you in my office, Friday after dinner."  
  


Harper will worry about that just a little for the next couple of days. Happily he hasn't got a nervous temperament and isn't the sort to blow it out of proportion. But then again, it doesn't _sound_ good. He's a clever lad, however, and - most efficiently - he will use that to try to convince the others he's in trouble for not managing them better. It will help convince his Housemates to tone down their attacks on the seventh year boys. Nevertheless, he isn't at all sure what to expect, and he'll be quite surprised when he arrives for his 'detention' in Professor Snape's classroom to find the blackboards covered in Transfiguration formulas and a square of cloth waiting for him on his desk. 

'No dirty cauldrons tonight,' the Head will tell him. 'I thought I'd give you something more difficult.' And he will have the boy practise Transfiguring that piece of cloth over and over and over until he can lengthen and thicken and colour and patch it however he pleases. 

Saturday morning, Harper's roommates will be surprised to discover he seems to have a whole new set of pyjamas.  
  


Zabini is clearly having too much fun with all of this and that annoys Severus. Facing him now he asks, "Zabini, don't you have somewhere to be? Breakfast perhaps?" 

"Oh, uh, yes, Sir." It occurs to Blaise that their Head probably isn't well disposed towards him right now and that it would undoubtedly be a wise move to not goad him into making his displeasure clear to the others. That can't _possibly_ be to his advantage. No, if he suggests Blaise should be elsewhere, then so be it. 

"Hey, Harper, wait up." Blaise trots after the Hutchinson brothers who don't seem eager to stop. Merlin, if they hurry, they just might get something to eat yet.

* * *

  


The moment the door closes behind Blaise, Draco demands, "Where did you put the letter?"

"We need to get ready, Draco. You heard the Professor..."

Draco draws his wand and Theo winces, but the blond flicks it and the next thing Theo knows he's been hit by a Cleansing Charm. "Then get dressed if you want to," Draco tells him. "But there are still a few things we need to talk about first." He flicks his wand again and now it's his turn for the Cleansing Charm. Another, and he's cast a Convesto to clothe himself. It's dizzying and that's probably almost all he can handle for the moment without some rest first, but he'd found the talk with Severus very... encouraging. 

Theo follows suit with a Charm to dress himself while Draco battles to get his hair under control. The Convesto always makes such a mess of things. And then he thinks of Severus' words and decides that's probably... fitting. 

"You need to give me back the letter, Theo." He tells his friend as he combs his hair back with a bit of Sleekeazy's. He waits to see if there's any resistance, but all the fight seems to have gone out of the brunet. 

Theo lifts the Notice-Me-Not and the Locking Charm on his bedside table and retrieves the letter. His shoulders sag as he hands it to Draco, and he only asks one question, "It's true, everything it says, isn't it?"

Draco opens the folded paper to confirm it's the letter, then digs deep to find the energy for an Incendio. Soon there's no trace left of the thing. "I need your Oath, Theo. You need to swear that you won't speak to anyone about this who doesn't know what happened."

"Why should I give it to you, Draco? Why _should_ I keep silent? Do _you_ deserve that? Do _we_ deserve that? Why _shouldn't_ everyone know?"

Draco considers it for a moment and then selects his pressure point. "Do you really think it will help _her_?" And Severus might now be gratified to know he'd at least _thought_ about 'her'. 

"Who was it?" Theo's voice breaks. But Draco only shakes his head. 

"I can't tell you."

"Please..." Theo sounds desperate. 

"Take the Oath, Theo. It's what the Professor wants. And I think we owe him that much."

"You'll swear to that?"

"Merlin's... _Fine_. I solemnly swear that Professor Snape wants us not to speak to anyone unaware of the details about what happened Friday evening. Now will you give me your Oath?" 

There's a vein throbbing in Theo's neck as he does so, but he does it, and then seems to crumple even more. He takes a seat rather heavily on his bed as though his legs couldn't hold his weight any longer, and that might actually be the case. Both boys have been through the mill. 

With the Notice-Me-Not on the nightstand now completely lifted, Draco can't help noticing... "Hey, Theo, you've got some chicken legs..." 

Theo looks at the plate bearing yesterday's supper and thinks about how he'd brought it back to the room with him yesterday for the others, back when he still thought he might be a worthwhile human being. _That_ hadn't lasted long. "Go ahead, help yourself. I've lost my appetite anyway."

Draco's famished and he doesn't need an engraved invitation. He descends upon the food ravenously. He'd missed dinner after all. 

Theo scrutinises him as he eats, apparently largely unaffected by... everything. 

"Whom did we kidnap?" Nott prods again after a few moments of silence. "I've taken your Oath, now tell me."

"I _can't_. Do you understand? I _can't_ tell you. _Honestly_. But I can point out that the kidnapping as such, and it was _never_ meant to be that..." 

"Well what _would_ you call it then?" There's some sarcasm in the question, which given Theo's state not a quarter of an hour ago is promising, if inconvenient. 

Draco sighs, "Even if it perhaps _legally_ was..." Theo snorts. "Look, Theo, _you_ didn't do anything wrong. _I_ was the one who grabbed her. It said so black on beige."

Technically, it _hadn't_. It was impossible to tell if his mother's 'you' was singular or plural, and it had left Theo all the more worried. Hearing this provides at least some relief. But as Draco _wasn't_ aware of that - _he'd_ properly interpreted that 'you' after all - _his_ Oath to Severus doesn't keep him from saying any of this to Theo. He is absolutely certain the boy _knows_ everything he's telling him, he just assumes Theo hasn't quite fathomed the meaning of those facts. 

As Hermione could now grudgingly testify, _that's_ the fundamental problem with the limitations of Oaths being purely relative.

"This is all _my_ fault." Draco assures him. Personally, he's inclined to blame Vince for a fair share of it, but that's hardly the point right now, and he wouldn't be able to tell Theo about it anyway. 

" _I_ tied her to that chair. It was a _stupid_ idea," Draco allows, and Theo just snorts again, "an _incredibly_ stupid idea, and it all got badly out of hand..."

" _That's_ how you'd describe it?" Theo seems to be recuperating. Mixed blessings. 

"Look, it was never meant to... It wasn't supposed to..." Draco struggles, between the Oath and his own (admittedly faulty) conscience, hemmed in from both sides. He finally goes with, "Your father had the right of it. You did everything you could to put a stop to it. It's absolutely true."

Once he finally has something in his stomach, Draco feels a little more fortified to face the problems before him, and does indeed manage another Cleansing Charm for his hands after he returns the plate to Theo's nightstand. 

"What was I doing there in the first place, Draco? Did I go with you to stop you?" 

That's tricky. Draco can't honestly say. And anything he does say is just likely to send Theo spiralling down his rabbit hole again. There's little question that wouldn't be healthy for _anyone_ , but for the son of a Death Eater? It's just as likely to get him killed. He sits there, wavering, and opportunely Theo's mind has raced on to the next problem. 

"If... _that_ wasn't the intention, just what was the Potion for? Where did it come from?"

Draco stares _studiously_ at the ceiling. The Oath most certainly won't let him answer that. But he very much wishes to do so. "I can guarantee you, that's not something... _I_ tend to have lying around." He shrugs slowly. "Where do Potions come from?" His eyes never leave the ceiling, but Theo's tick to Vince's trunk and Draco sighs in relief. 

Theo's smart. He thinks it over and fires off a couple more questions. He tries to formulate things to exclude Friday, in the process leaving Draco in a slightly more advantageous position. He has no way of explaining what he was thinking when he gave Granger that potion, he really doesn't, and he fears there's a good chance Theo will never forgive him if he ever learns of it. Given that, Draco is greatly relieved when he isn't forced to try to explain it. At least not yet. 

"I want your Oath, have you ever purchased, no, _acquired_ , have you ever acquired a Lust Potion? Are you currently in possession of any? Were you in possession of any that have been confiscated? Do you have any desire to give it to a witch, _any_ witch, regardless of blood status? Do you swear I tried to keep you and the others from doing so?"

"No, no, no, definitely not, and yes, you did." A flare of magic seals it. No more was required. The others are right; he usually tends to be overly theatrical. Theo looks to Draco's wand, still intact, and continues. 

"Do you know anyone who _has_ acquired a Lust Potion? Is one of our roommates... Is one or more of them... inclined to give something like that to a witch..." Draco blinks slowly and Theo stops to consider how the Lust Potions are typically recreationally used and changes tack. " _Without_ her knowledge or consent?"

"Yes and yes." Again there's a flare of magic, all of which could have been draining, and Draco is glad he had something to eat. Considering the subject, Theo is glad he _didn't_. 

"The Head put a stop to it according to the letter." Theo proceeds. Draco nods. "That and the fact it was a squib draught. So I wasn't very successful at stopping the others, was I?" Theo asks, his voice small. 

"Theo, if _all_ you did was delay things long enough for Professor Snape to get there, isn't that enough? We had no way of knowing it was a squib. There'd have been no... reason for it if... we had known." Theo bristles, but lets the statement stand. He understands the constrictions of Oaths, when all is said and done. 

Draco tries again, because this is something he can do for his friend, "What would you have expected to be able to do, just you against four of us?" _That_ works. Theo is reasonably certain he can take a couple of them in a duel without issues, and perhaps the others in a fight under the right circumstances, but under no conditions can he imagine besting all four at once. His posture relaxes a little. 

"Do you think you're up to facing Charms?" Draco asks him gently.

Theo has far fewer problems with facing Charms than he does with facing his roommates. He'll revise that thought, but not substantially, when he discovers his Charms assignment has gone walkabout. Auspiciously, Professor Flitwick isn't the sort to assign detention. He'll just give Theo more homework to make up for it. With luck, that won't also go missing. 

"I certainly don't want to explain to the Head that I wasn't." Theo sighs heavily and gathers his things. 

He stops at the door. "How will I face her?" He just stands there, unwilling or unable to leave their room. 

Draco doesn't know how to answer this for him. "It happened Friday. Has there been... a _problem_ since then?" Theo shakes his head. "Then I imagine it will remain that way." He hopes like hell that's true. 

"Was she Obliviated?" The more questions Theo asks, the worse Draco feels. It's all so much easier to deal with when he doesn't stop to think about it. This is... This is very... challenging. 

"Theo... I couldn't tell you if she was." Draco thinks about it, and decides that's probably the safest answer for all concerned. "Given there haven't been... any problems, one _might_ assume that's a reasonable explanation, don't you agree? No one has called for our expulsion, we have a clean slate. You need to behave that way."

"And Professor Snape?"

"I think it's safe to say we're in his debt."

"How do we ever repay that?"

"I don't know, Theo. I really don't. A bonding... To a stranger? To a... _Muggle-born_... _These_ days? I don't think that's something we can ever repay. But it's probably safe to say we shouldn't waste the chance he gave us. We need to carry on as normal. _No one_ can know. 

"So we have two choices. Either you pull yourself together and we get going, or I'm going to have to hex you into the Infirmary and take a detention for it, or do you have another explanation for why we'd be missing class?

Theo stands there considering those options when the door to their room opens and the decision is taken out of his hands.

* * *

  


Having finished their breakfasts, the girls return to the common room, their books in hand. It's nearly time to leave for class. 

Professor Snape has reappeared in their absence and is now dealing with the Vince-couch conundrum. His hands Imperviused (just in case), his wand gripped firmly as he delicately directs a steady stream of the Universal Solvent in a thin spiral from its bottle through the air to the boundary between the boy's front and the dragon hide couch. The wings, or rather, their incessant movements, are making the job a good deal more complex, and the potion dodges and weaves its way, much like a living serpent, in between their flaps to reach its intended target. And to round out the picture, Vince is whinging up a storm. The myriad cuts and abrasions covering him probably aren't helping matters any. The girls get no further than the landing, stopping to stare at the sight.

It's something else. 

Pansy's standing there at a safe distance, eating a pastie as she watches in rapt fascination. Gregory has slid back a little to provide the Professor room to work, but there's no sign of the others. 

This goes on for a few moments more, and then with a final shuddering _howl_ , coinciding with Severus' silent Finite Incantatem no one will ever hear about, Vince slides free of the couch and crashes to the floor. Gregory's scramble to get out of the way is only partially successful, and he ends up with a lap full of his friend. Unfortunately for Vince, Gregory was kneeling towards his feet and with nothing to cushion him - so oddly no one thought to cast a charm - his head crashes onto the flagstone floor. 

Hard. 

On the other hand, with his thick skull he probably doesn't notice. Much. And he has plenty of other things to take his mind off of that particular lump. 

The cry, or maybe the crash, is enough to mobilise Millie, and she rushes forward only stopping shy of Vince when the Professor extends an arm barring her way. "I'd advise you to proceed with caution, Miss Bulstrode." That recommendation hangs in the air for a moment, and the girls have to wonder if he isn't trying to tell them something beyond the obvious here. By the time he - innocuously - continues, "You don't want to get any of... that on you," they've already decided he isn't warning them about the Solvent. 

Three of the four take that as a warning to withdraw. 

Millie is both generally less quick on the uptake, and more loyal to the boy in question. She immediately starts trying to tell the Head how she'd endeavoured to lift the Nail Polish Charm, and failed, and her thoughts about what sort of Hair Colouring Charm might have been used, not that she'd been able to lift that either, which would seem to indicate she was wrong. Severus puts up a hand to halt the recitation, "I believe Crabbe has quite enough going on. I wasn't about to address his superficial problems first." Millie pinks now ever so slightly at the rebuke, and she's usually not so bad about that. 

Severus stands there quietly performing a Tergeo... to clean the couch. 

"Uh, Professor," Gregory speaks up from underneath Vince, "does it matter that I got some of that on me?" He has to keep shifting to avoid the wings, and he now has some of the Solvent on his face and bare arms. He'll probably regret that later. 

"Goyle, when we say students are required to wear _robes_ , it may surprise you to learn we _aren't_ referring to bathrobes. Your _school robes_ would have provided more than adequate protection. As it is..." He shakes his head ruefully. It's unclear if that statement is true, but it's deflected nicely from the issue at hand. 

"I tried telling him that, Professor," old Swoopstikes pipes up from the group portrait. 

"It isn't _time_ yet, Swaine," Headmaster Black objects from right next to him. 

"Still, that's no way to run around," Swoopstikes grumbles. 

"Oh, I think there's been unusually little running as a whole this morning," Wilhelmina Wilkes quips as she leans over to examine the chessboard and then claims one of Phineas' pieces with a smirk.

"Particularly from the ones lying about on the floor," Salazar adds. "You. Boy." He barks at Crabbe who lies there groaning and flapping and largely unimpressed, "I've told you about that before. It's undignified. Not befitting your House."

"Too right," Phineas agrees, but sounds amused, despite the troublesome loss of his bishop. 

"So should I maybe try showering it off?" Gregory tries again.

"I fear it's a little late for that," Severus jibes, "and it won't help any more than a Cleansing Charm would. You didn't think to cast an Impervius?" Goyle's face falls immediately in answer to that. "The circumstances clearly called for one," he further rubs salt in the wound. "Very well," He waves his wand and performs a Cleansing Charm, and then because he can't quite leave well enough alone, waves it again and performs the Freshening Charm. The one that makes a person's hair go... 

_Floof_. 

Goyle looks like a Puffskein. 

Quite. 

It transpires, when it isn't being applied to _him_ , Severus rather likes the Charm. Miss Granger might be on to something. A couple of the witches present begin tittering behind him and several of the portraits laugh. He can't blame them. He keeps his face straight, lastly this is serious business, and he has a reputation to maintain. But he may just have memorised the sight for later. 

"Alright, Goyle. That's you sorted. You have first period free, is that correct?"

"Yes, Sir." He's still a little winded from the Charm and trying to slick his hair back down. Anyone present could tell him it's a lost cause. When it comes right down to it, intent makes all the difference when casting a spell, and that particular Freshening Charm had packed... quite a wallop. 

"Fine. Do try to get Crabbe cleaned up as well as you can, and then go get dressed. You'll need to run an errand for me, so be quick about it. I find myself forced to fetch your hebetudinous roommates. Apparently they require a personal... summons to join us this morning. I strongly suggest that _you_ not keep me similarly waiting." 

Goyle looks like that's the _furthest_ thing from his mind. Much like rational though in general at this point. 

After consulting with Slinky from his other portrait on one of the Great Staircase landings, Salazar now attempts to demonstrate his superior grasp of the situation. "Professor. Professor! It's almost time for everyone to leave for classes. Shall we send for someone to take over?"

"I appreciate the offer, Salazar. Most generous," Severus responds, well aware of the time. _He_ can cast a Tempus after all, and has one set. "But we have matters well in hand."

Vince is inclined to disagree, but can't seem to find the energy to say so. 

"Miss Greengrass, Miss Davis, I believe you have Charms first period?" 

Tracey nods, and Daphne replies, "Yes, Sir." 

"May I prevail upon you to stop by my chambers en route and notify my wife that I won't be returning before class? Please tell her not to wait for me." There are a few blinks at that, but not a single snicker. Not one. And for _just_ that reason, Severus _vastly_ prefers dealing with Snakes to any other House. If there weren't that nontrivial matter of the House being a training ground for junior Death Eaters, he might almost find it downright pleasant. Not that it compensates for all the hours he spends instructing the dunderheaded, but still... 

"Of course, Sir," Tracey quickly agrees. 

"We'd be happy to," Daphne adds. 

As a good number of the seventh years haven't gone to breakfast and are still in the dungeons, and a whopping _eight_ of them in total are in Hermione's Charms class, Severus has just arranged for an escort of sorts for Miss Granger. At least he hopes she'll be clever enough to recognise it as such. With Gryffindors, one never knows.

* * *

  


Severus doesn't bother knocking before he enters the seventh year boys' room. They should both be dressed and prepared to leave or they'll have much greater problems to worry about than a lack of privacy. As though _anyone_ had privacy within the school. There's certainly none in the _dorms_... 

Theo makes a noise that sounds like one of Miss Granger's squeaks. It's fitting in a guinea pig. It's... odd in a witch. It's frankly ludicrous in a nearly eighteen year old young man. 

Who now leaps back from the door. 

Gangly boy, Nott. That gangliness doesn't precisely lend itself to such leaps. 

"On the off chance either of you are labouring under the delusion that I possess a sense of humour, I thought I should clarify for you both that I was absolutely _serious_ about not excusing you from classes. Would you care to tell me just what seems to be causing the delay?"

Both boys begin stuttering excuses, and Severus extends a hand, fingers spread, silencing them immediately. He didn't even need a Spell for that. They stand there blinking. "Never mind. I don't want to hear it." It only disconcerts them further. There is a bit of sport to be had in it, and it's rather to Severus' tastes. He takes his fun where he _can_ these days. 

If Theo was feeling nervy to begin with, the gimlet eye Severus now fixes him with nearly reduces him to a puddle. Severus doesn't find it completely disagreeable, but perhaps it wasn't the best of approaches to coax him out of his room. 

With some annoyance, he reaches into his pocket and somewhat grudgingly withdraws two phials of Pain-Relief. Had Zabini not been watching him like a hawk, he'd probably have left them there before. The boys are dragging, no one could miss it, and he doesn't need people asking questions. Affairs of the House are generally best kept private. 

_Generally_. 

He tries not to think about letting Argus publicly flog the lot of them... And then he tries even harder to remember to take Nott out of the generalisation. It's proving difficult. It's probably his father's fault. 

They're surprised, naturally, and not quite willing to believe Severus intends the Pain-Relieving Potions for _them_ until he hands one to each. "From my private stores." When they stand there gawping, he continues, "What, shall we tell everyone you were celebrating my nuptials? Take them and get moving. I won't say it again." He stands there holding the door open, indicating he expects them to leave before he will. 

It doesn't seem the sort of invitation one can refuse. Both boys quaff the Potions, Severus twitches a couple of fingers, and the phials are Banished; it's as though it never happened. A little uncertainly, they file out past him into the corridor. 

"Thank you, Sir." Theo starts. Severus nods gruffly. He's far from done with the boys, they shouldn't kid themselves otherwise. "I wanted to say how sorry I am..." Nott continues tentatively.

Severus interrupts him, "I don't need your _apologies_ , Nott. I _demand_ your _cooperation_. I fully expect..." It's as far as he gets, they haven't even reached the stairs when a blood curdling scream wafts up from the common room. 

Not unreasonably, both boys look rather concerned. Severus savours the moment. "Presumably Crabbe," he explains calmly as the boys race for the steps. Of course that doesn't begin to prepare them for what they see when they reach the common room. 

Vince has had that effect on _everyone_ this morning. 

Currently, he's crouched on all fours, panting on the ground, his clothes in tatters and his wings flapping up a storm as Gregory tries to apply some cleaning charms to him. 

It might have _helped_ , however, had someone told Goyle that Scourgifies are for cleaning _pot and pans_ and not one's roommates. Regrettably, no one bothers to tell him that now either. 

"For fuck's sake, Gregory!" Millie shouts at him. "Er, I mean..." She's at a loss. She has _no idea_ how to politely phrase that. 

"Language," Pansy drawls. "But I can sort of see your point, Millie. Nimue's knickers, Gregory."

Oh, right. Yes. _That_.

"Goyle, you never cease to amaze. I asked you to clean him, not _scour_ him. I'll take it from here. Go get dressed." Looking suitably chastised and now sporting a noticeable rash on his face and hands, Gregory beats a hasty retreat back up the way the others had just come. 

"Miss Parkinson, Miss Bulstrode I believe it's time you were on your way to class. Malfoy, Nott, will I need to speak to you later?"

"No, Sir." They're both quick to reply, almost as one voice. Severus likes that. 

"See that it stays that way," he tells them as a Parthian shot. The four head towards the corridor leading out of the dungeons, but they frequently cast looks back over their shoulders, it's difficult - especially for the boys - to tear their eyes off of Vince. 

"What on earth happened to him?" Draco asks, not exactly wisely. 

"Why, I imagine it was a complication from the Serpent, don't you, Millie?" Pansy answers rather coolly. "Or do you mean to say _he_ wasn't deserving as well?"

Draco reaches out to grab Theo's arm to hold him back and allow the witches to get a little ahead of them. 

This does not bode well for him.

* * *

  


Hermione has finished tidying up and put everything back to rights. Belatedly it occurs to her that if she has to Banish their breakfast trays back to the Hogwarts kitchens, she could just as easily have done so with the dishes before she washed them. 

Well.

It may not have been efficient, but she'd just felt the need to _do_ something... 

And it's done now. 

She sets out food for Crooks, who still refuses to leave the comfort of her new bed. Lazy thing. Thinking of the half-Kneazle, her thoughts soon turn to his fur. She looks at the bowl in which she's collecting it, and feels just a little disappointed that the Professor hadn't noticed the charm working. It had been silly, really, the emphasis she'd placed on it. 

But there again... She'd just wanted to _accomplish_ something. 

And she had. 

It may not be much, but she's proud of it. She was set a challenge, something she wasn't sure could be solved, and she'd kept researching until she found the answer. It's her strength, after all. She doesn't quit until she finds the answer. 

Even if it _is_ just about how to keep half-Kneazles from shedding all over. 

She looks at the ring on her finger and thinks about the questions she has as about her bond and her defective Loyalty Vow, the answers she's seeking there. And then worries if she could be banned from the library _entirely_ after yesterday... 

Neville should be the only one who knows what happened, and she trusts him implicitly. He's not the sort that will feel the need to tell everyone in the Great Hall about how something went ' _boom_ '. Her secret should be safe.  
  


Speaking of proud... She could swear the Professor is. She listens to the bond more intently. 

Proud and highly _amused_. 

She'd _love_ to know what that's about. She closes her eyes and tries to listen to the not-wards again, because it can't be the wards anymore as he's left them (and she can feel that too, it feels like... like a shame). But if she tries, she thinks she could say the Professor is to the right of their front door and further into the lake than she is. She's not sure where the dungeons wrap around to, but she feels like she could point to his position. She doesn't _think_ he's far away. 

Unless she's very wrong. 

She should probably test that with a verifiable location next.

She curls up on the window seat again, enjoying the view of the lake - it's truly beautiful - enjoying the silence of their chambers and reading up for Charms. She's covered the material before, but it never hurts to refresh her memory. Or to read a little further ahead. 

The Squid, a little disappointingly, doesn't see fit to buzz their windows again. She was hoping to get a little practice in at _not_ jumping when he does that. She assumes he's just waiting until there's an audience to her embarrassment. And then she wonders if Crooks or Sunny would do, or if it only counts if the Professor's there to see her... squeak. 

She busies herself with her Charms text until the wards once again alert her that someone isn't just going past, and soon enough there's another knock on the door. 

She nearly jumps from her seat and runs to answer it, reflexively checking the wards, and making a bet with herself that she'll find two people standing there when she opens it. 

She's so busy focusing on _that_ , that it doesn't occur to her to wonder _which_ two people or if she even _should_ open the door to them. Without a second thought she throws it wide, and only after doing so does it occur to her that while the wards would keep anyone from entering, she has no reason to assume the right sort of spell can't pass right through them. She may need to ask the Professor about that. 

But Hermione's luck seems to be changing. 

Once again, it's neither someone to attack or even harass her. 

"Hi, Hermione!" 

It's Daphne. 

With the largest imaginable smile on her face. 

That she seems to feel the need to accompany with an energetic little wave. 

The more Greengrass smiles, the more Davis, standing beside her, seems to squirm, as though the brunette's joy sucks all the equanimity out of her. That's probably not far off. 

"Oh, um, hi, Daphne."

"Madam Snape." Tracey adds, or possibly corrects, trying to keep Daph's natural enthusiasm in check. It shouldn't be easy. Of course, _right now_ she's also battling to conceal her surprise at Madam Snape's get up. She's in a fitted white blouse, with the top several buttons open, and a non-regulation _Slytherin_ green skirt - which she doesn't even want to _try_ to explain - with no sign of a House tie or school robes. 

And the witch is a _Prefect_.

Daphne, quite naturally, takes it more in stride. 

"Davis." Hermione bobs her head in greeting. "Is my help needed after all?" She asks rather hopefully. 

Neither of the Slytherins knows what she means, but Daphne recovers first. "Professor Snape asked us to let you know that he won't be returning before class. He said not to wait for him."

Hermione stands there nibbling her lip and considering that for a moment. She hadn't expected him to return, well, not unless whatever the problem was had been easily and quickly sorted. It seemed unlikely. By this time, it wouldn't have made sense to return to chambers first; he'd probably have gone straight to his classroom... And she was hardly _waiting_ for him... Which means he was trying to tell her something different...

She remains there thinking it through, her efforts visible as she does so, but Daphne is a very good natured person and she waits there patiently for Hermione to work out... whatever it is. Tracey, intrinsically less good natured, just stands - somewhat less patiently - by her friend.  
  


Fearing Madam Snape won't come to the proper conclusion or at least not in a timely fashion, the Bloody Baron fades silently into sight behind the two girls. With the flat of his hand, he gestures silently at the Head's wife, the young Slytherins and then up the hallway before bowing and fading out of sight again. 

Even for an Estray, it should surely do the trick, should it not?  
  


Hermione keeps getting the feeling she should be listening to the ghost and portraits more. Of course it might help in general if they were just the _tiniest_ bit more forthcoming... It's not like they couldn't _speak_.  
  


As Hermione's focus shifts behind them, Daphne and Tracey simply assume her thoughts have turned inwards, perhaps remembering or recognising something, although Tracey's secretly more inclined to take it for wind. Close enough. The hallway had quite evidently been empty when they arrived, and ghosts just aren't often taken into consideration in their daily lives. 

That's likely to change. 

Of course, it helps that Madam Snape is a Moggie, and they aren't expected to be the brightest Lumoses or make any great deal of sense. Tracey isn't even _trying_ to figure her out at this point.  
  


It occurs to Hermione that by sending Greengrass... _Daphne_ and Davis to let her know he wouldn't be returning, the Professor has arranged to have two of the other young women in her Charms class stop by... She imagines it isn't a coincidence. 

And the Baron wasn't _entirely_ subtle. She tries not to picture where that logically must eventually end (and fails), with him semaphoring her through the castle, or what he must think of her to resort to such measures. And then she has to pretend she'd reached her conclusion _before_ he appeared so those measures wouldn't have been warranted. None of which is embarrassing in the least... 

"You're headed to Charms?" Hermione asks, pro forma. Daphne nods, pleased that Hermione is finally... unstuck; Tracey had begun to fidget. "Would you mind if I walk with you?" 

Tracey blinks once and doesn't even have time to properly consider if it's a _good_ plan or not - yesterday's trip to Herbology had certainly given her some things to think about - when Daphne cheerily answers for the both of them. "Not at all, we'd be pleased for the company." And now Tracey just tries to tell herself this must be part and parcel of helping the Professor with his Protection Vow. 

Somehow she hadn't pictured it quite like... this. 

"Great. Just let me get my books." Hermione answers. Tracey gives her a rather pointed look at her clothes - because books are most definitely not _all_ the witch needs - but still doesn't say anything as Madam Snape takes a step back behind the Privacy Barrier. This is Daphne's project. Let her sort it. 

And on consideration, it was probably better than Fwoopers. If only slightly.  
  


Hermione Summons her bag and takes a phial of Draught of Peace. It's probably for the best if it's not widely known she's resorting to that, or it defeats the point. A Finite Incantatem on her Transfiguration soon has her skirt back to the regulation uniform issue; the buttons of her blouse are quickly done. She Summons her school robes, slips them over her clothes, pulls her tie from her pocket, and fixes it in place around her neck. Her books follow suit next, flying into her extended hand, and not two minutes later she's closing the door behind her and they're on their way. 

She _is_ a witch, now isn't she? 

They walk in silence initially; it's somehow awkward. The Slytherins don't feel it would be right to continue their conversation about Vince with the Gryffindor, and Hermione isn't sure what to talk about with them in turn.  
  


Unsurprisingly, Daphne is the one to break the ice first. Equally unsurprisingly, at least for those who know her even only marginally, when she does so, she starts by bringing up Fwoopers. Tracey manages not to groan, but only just. House pride is involved. Daphne tells Hermione just how sorry she was to have missed the conversation she had had with Theo yesterday about Transfiguration. She's still frightfully keen to Transfigure a Fwooper without its maddening call. 

Tracey begins mentally reciting potions ingredients. She finds it helps to keep her calm. 

But Daphne is sort of a natural at this, and she soon has Hermione deep in a discussion about how realistic the set of behaviours of a Transfigured life form _have to be_ , given it isn't actually _alive_. "Although I liked your idea about Dynamic Charms. I think that has great promise. I was talking to Theo about that yesterday evening, too." 

It's a topic she'd be interested in pursuing anyway, but it does double duty. Daphne pays close attention and doesn't miss that Hermione doesn't flinch in the least at the mentions of Theo. Daph can't help thinking there's some terrible significance to the fact the _Muggle-born witches_ were _bonded_ , that the boys are possibly somehow at _fault_ for it, and she's more than passing worried about Theo's response to _women_ in the boys' dorms. She's relieved to note that whatever it was that happened, it doesn't seem to have involved Hermione. At least, not beyond causing her to bond Professor Snape, anyway. 

Which is clearly a very significant thing, naturally, bonding and all that, but at least it's nothing horrific. 

"Well the Transfigured animals aren't sentient. Gamp's laws assure us of that," Hermione tries bringing up Gamp, and is pleased to see it doesn't put an end to the conversation. Quite the contrary. It helps combat her latent fear that previous responses might have been a function of who mentions it. Perhaps it just comes down to the company in which one does so...

"But they _are_ very convincing," Daphne insists. 

"It's like an interactive screensaver." That's logically met with a blank stare, and it occurs to Hermione she probably has no prayer of explaining that one. "Rotten example, sorry. Basically it's something that _isn't_ sentient, but conceivably looks or behaves convincingly so. But it's only following a set of predefined behaviours. My mum has... had one with fish that follow your cursor."

"And no one called the Aurors?"

"Why would they... Oh, no, a 'cursor' has nothing to do with curses." 

"That seems counterintuitive," Tracey grumbles, silently hoping the Fwooper phase of the conversation is over, but not certain that talking about _Muggles_ represents an actual improvement. With luck, no one will overhear them. 

"Well, Muggles don't think about cursing much. I mean in terms of Spells. They naturally do a fair amount of cursing. Frequently at cursors, come to think of it..." She can't help remembering her father trying to do his tax return on their home computer and the rather... colourful language that had accompanied the undertaking. Her mum had had to take over before he did himself a mischief. 

"But the point is it's all about behaving within predefined parameters," she wraps it up. 

"So why can't we change the definition?" Daphne smiles. "If you're doing a Transfiguration like that, and it's not a real Fwooper anyway, but only a facsimile of one, why couldn't you change the properties?"

"You know when you put it like that, I don't really know..."

"It's probably closely linked to intent, and that's undoubtedly easier when the result is a known." Tracey contributes, apparently not completely disinterested in the magic behind it. "Conceivably if you applied advanced Arithmancy to help limit the possible outcomes, you might have a chance." 

"I guess maybe you could, but I can't imagine it would be easy," Hermione finds herself cautiously agreeing. 

Daphne gives her a broad grin, "I didn't say it had to be _easy_. I just want to know if it's _possible_."

Hermione can't help thinking that's a sentiment she can understand only too well.

  



	96. 11 12i Wednesday - Rise and Mind the Little Monsters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Staff:**  
>  Poppy Pomfrey (Mediwitch extraordinaire), Professor Minerva McGonagall (HoG, Transfiguration), Professor Filius Flitwick (HoR, Charms), Professor Pomona Sprout (HoH, Herbology), Albus Dumbledore (dying Headmaster, but ffs, not nearly fast enough...)
> 
>  **Slytherins:**  
>  Tomasina Touchstone 5S (Prefect, Potions savvy heiress), Hunter Hutchinson 4S (Imp, Take-Out Delivery Boy), Wilfred Wilkes 4S (Messenger Boy) 
> 
> **Gryffindors:**  
>  Harry 7G (Team Captain, Seeker, the Boy-Who-Lived-to-Annoy-Severus), Ron Weasley 7G (Prefect, Keeper (but also only in the Quidditch sense), the Boy-Who-Exists-to-Annoy-Hermione), Neville Longbottom 7G (errant Herbal Knight), Seamus Finnigan 7G (fiery Reserve Beater), Kevin 'Kev' Peterson 5G (in a class of his own)
> 
>  **Ravenclaws:**  
>  Darius Inglebee 4R (Reserve Chaser, impatient Patient), Stewart Ackerly 4R (Beater) 
> 
> **Hufflepuffs:**  
>  Leanne Moon 7H (Megan's friend), Megan Jones 7H (Muggle-born), Salome Smith 7H (née Perks, bonded to Zacharias Smith 6H), Ernie Macmillan 7H (Head Boy), Roger Malone 7H (Leanne's and Megan's friend)
> 
>  **Mentioned briefly:** **Staff:** Severus (HoS, Potions), Professor Terrence 'Call-Me-Terry' Taylor (DADA), Professor Sarah Sapworthy (Xylomancy), Professor Sybill Trelawney (Divination), **Slytherin:** Harper Hutchinson 6S (Prefect, Chaser, flash Robe Model), **Gryffindors:** Hermione 7G (Prefect, Supreme Swot), Kiera Kilkenny Devi 6G (bonded to Dhanesh, who sadly no longer has his tail), Dennis Creevey 4G (almost as bad as Colin), Katie Bell G'97 (cursed necklace survivor)
> 
> * * *
> 
> * * *
> 
>   
>  **Previously:**  
>  Ron hexed Kev Peterson with Harry's weird Boil Hex. (Mentioned 080) Suitably inspired, Dennis Creevey applied the same hex to one of the Ravenclaws (Darius Inglebee) attacking Newton Kurz in the duel Hermione stopped (080). Filius had some difficulty treating it, and the boys spent the evening in the Infirmary (081). 
> 
> Unfortunately, feeling a little hex happy, in the process Ron also hexed Colin Creevey, Dennis panicked and went to get Professor McGonagall for help. She was so angry, she gave Ron detention every evening until the big match, dooming the Gryffindor Quidditch team to early morning practices. (080) That went over well. 
> 
> And Albus had a mysterious meeting with an irate Muggle parent last night (080).

Poppy takes a handful of Floo powder and throws it into the fire. A cry of 'Minerva' soon summons the Transfiguration Professor to her hearth. "Good Morning, Minerva. I hope I didn't wake you?"

"Not at all, Poppy. It was time to rise and face the day." Poppy swears she can hear the woman sigh. She knows the feeling. "Was there something I could do for you?"

"There was, actually, although I wanted to let you know we still have your Mr. Peterson here."

"Hmm." Her lips narrow at the thought of yesterday evening's hexing, at the wand of a _Prefect_ no less. "How is he?"

"Greatly improved, thanks to Filius' efforts, but it wasn't easy. Nevertheless, we should have him back out in time for classes this morning."

"I'm sure he'll be pleased," Minerva manages with an almost straight face, but the twinkle in her eyes gives it away, certainly to someone who has been friends with her as long as Poppy has. 

Poppy manages to keep her own smirk under control, mindful of the students lying in the beds nearby. "And that was what I wished to speak to you about. I gather Mr. Weasley was behind that particular hex... That _jinx_ ," she corrects quickly, apparently not quite mindful enough. "Could I impose upon you to ask him what he used? 

"Mr. Creevey seems to have gotten it from him and simply parroted the thing on another student. We didn't think to press him further at the time, hadn't quite realised how sticky it would prove, and of course it's best to go straight to the source, at the end of the day." 

"You weren't able to counter it?" Minerva sounds shocked. Dennis Creevey is about as _far_ from a master Spell caster as one can get. 

"We tried, naturally, but we don't seem to be able to find a Countercharm for it, and I can't keep having poor Filius run over every time someone loses their rag and unleashes their wand," Poppy huffs.

"No, of course not, I agree completely. I'll be happy to ask him, but I fear the Quidditch team has early morning practice today. I'll get back to you with the information you need, I should think after breakfast at the latest. Thank Filius for me, if you see him first."

"I imagine he'll be by before breakfast. I still have two of his here as well." She refrains from mentioning Mr. Inglebee's worrisome state. Those are the sort of conversations best saved for locations free from curious student ears. Extendable or otherwise. 

"Thank you, Poppy. I'll let you know as soon I can tell you anything further."

* * *

  


By the time Minerva is dressed and prepared to make her way to the dorms (she's rather had her fill of Mr. Weasley this week, and it's only Wednesday), curfew has ended. Mr. Longbottom is just exiting from behind the portrait as she arrives and she enquires as to Mr. Weasley's presence. 

_That's_ a bit of a problem. 

Ron isn't _there_. 

_None_ of the team are. 

They had snuck out for practice early this morning, _without_ obtaining permission from their Head of House first. She'd have granted it, naturally. (That _had_ rather been the _point_ of scheduling Mr. Weasley's detentions as she had, the assumption being they'd make her displeasure known to him in... ways that she couldn't. Although admittedly she _had_ been looking forward to letting them squirm before giving them her official blessing. But apparently none of them had felt courageous enough to approach her for her authorisation in light of her fury over the hexings last night. 

And they call themselves _Gryffindors_. 

"I'm afraid you just missed them," Neville lies surprisingly smoothly, although he resolves to have a panic attack later; first hexing staff, now lying to Professors... He hardly recognises himself anymore. But _he_ isn't going be the one to get the entire team detention. Somehow the Lions have a tendency to overlook the fact that _that_ would have been earned by the actions of the team and not by Neville's generally questionable skills at deception. He suppresses a shudder at the very thought of their reactions. He really doesn't need the kind of aggro that was rampant last night. Not that the library had proven that much quieter, now that he thinks about it. Merlin. He sort of wonders if _everyone's_ gone bonkers this week... "They've already gone down to the pitch."

Minerva casts a Tempus, more for effect than anything else, and replies, "That will be a very short practice then." Neville can't do more than shrug in response, and Minerva is good enough to let the young man off the hook. "If you should see Mr. Weasley..."

"I'll be sure to let him know that you're looking for him," Neville quickly agrees as he rushes off to the Great Hall. The chances are pretty good he'll see Ron at breakfast, after all. After missing breakfast yesterday, he can't imagine Ron would be eager to do that again. And he _definitely_ won't want to risk a repeat of helping himself to Peeve's bread... But just to be on the safe side, Neville will tell everyone Professor McGonagall wants to speak with Ron. 

Or at least, everyone in their House who is at breakfast this morning. 

That's quite a few people when one starts counting wands. 

Of course, when most of their Housemates - _individually and successively_ \- then proceed to let Ron know their Head of House was trying to find him, the already fairly disgruntled and tense boy will become increasingly more irritated. It will also occur to the team that they can't afford to take the risk of jumping curfew again tomorrow, and they'll force Ron to swallow the bitter draught and beg McGonagall for permission to practice earlier.  
  


She'll welcome the conversation.

* * *

  


Filius still has his two little Eagles in the Infirmary to see to. Mr. Ackerly should be released this morning. Mr. Inglebee is another matter. Filius has slept on it, and he's still no closer to a solution for the fourth year. He'll ask Severus if he has any ideas - either as to what was used or how to counter it - at breakfast. But first he stops by the Infirmary to see to the boys. The students certainly keep Poppy's hands full and wand busy. 

Little effort is required on Poppy's part at this point to get Misters Ackerly and Peterson on their way. Their problems had been mostly solved last night, and they'd just needed a little rest and time for their healing potions to be able to take effect. Mister Ackerly had apparently been on the receiving end of Mr. Hutchinson's work (both Mr. Hutchinsons, technically, but then Filius isn't aware of Harper's Stinging Hex), and while he truly wishes the boy could make his swish swishier - and then there was the matter of enunciation, of course - Filius has to admit his work here had been solid. The same couldn't be said of the younger Mr. Creevey's attempt. 

The boys are leaving as Filius enters the ward. 

"Mr. Ackerly, Mr. Peterson, are we feeling all better again?" 

"Yeah," Kev replies, willing to leave it at that. He's not a morning person. It counts as a success that he didn't give Flitwick grief for the 'we'. _We're_ _feeling just grand._

"Yes, thank you for asking, Professor," Ackerly shows him up with a pointed look his way as he heads out the doors. Stupid Ravenclaw. 

"Uh, thanks again for your help yesterday," Kev, once prodded, now thinks to add. 

"Not at all, my boy. Not at all. Glad to help. But if you could make an effort to steer clear of that jinx moving forward, it would be appreciated," he smiles beneficently at the fifth year. 

Kev does his level best not to look at him like he's barmy. The man _had_ helped him after all. As if he had _wanted_ to be hexed... "Uh, I'll make every effort to try?"

"Protego, Mr. Peterson. A good Protego is your friend." And he can't help thinking the boy could use all the friends he can get. 

Kev manages not to get shirty as he leaves, but stands there shaking his head once the doors close. 

_Teachers_. You'd think they haven't an _ounce_ of sense...  
  


With some regret, Filius breaks it to Mr. Inglebee that he'll still be unable to help him before his N.E.W.T. Charms class (and he wouldn't be adverse to a spot of breakfast first, either), but he promises to stop by again later. With a little luck, perhaps he'll have the solution by then. With a cheery wave to Poppy that does nothing for Inglebee's spirits, Filius leaves for breakfast to see what Minerva was able to discover from Mr. Weasley.

* * *

  


Already suffering the beginnings of a first class migraine, Albus Floos the Head of Hufflepuff's chambers. "Pomona? _Pomona_?" He calls, and it's not long before the rotund witch is kneeling before her fireplace. 

She groans as she gets into position. "I'm too heavy for this and you're too old," she chuckles good naturedly. It will probably be the end of her good humour for a little while to come, he thinks regretfully. "I need to ask Severus if he has something for that." 

She's expecting Albus to tease, most likely something along the lines of whether Severus should brew some aught for her joints, his age or her weight, the last two - she can hear it now - being declared equally improbable tasks. She enjoys the back and forth and has no issue making statements that leave openings to provide for it. That teasing feels like _belonging_. Staff are a family of sorts and Pomona is the sort of person to appreciate the time she spends with them. Well, by and large, anyway. 

But Albus has to disappoint her this morning. 

"I'm afraid I have some bad news, my dear," he tells her and sounds it for once. _That_ has her worried. "Would you kindly step through when it's convenient. We should speak before breakfast."

He withdraws and leaves her with a sinking feeling in her stomach and precious little desire to actually eat that breakfast. A little wryly, she allows that it takes rather a lot to put her off her feed, but Albus has talents others can only aspire to. Apparently this would be one of the lesser feted ones. 

Nervousness sets in as she tries to think if he could have had any of her other students bonded... It's a logical place for her thoughts to turn. Miss Perks, _Madam Smith_ has already been bonded to the Smith boy, _young man_ , and she knows for a fact Miss Jones isn't seeing anyone at school. She'd asked about after Albus' announcement of the bondings Sunday... The rest of the Muggle-born witches are too young, rendering the point moot. She wonders if he could have convinced another of her young men to bond someone, but no one comes to mind... And then her thoughts leap to Miss Granger and Severus as she considers that the lack of a relationship decidedly hadn't stopped Albus there... 

Well, those were special circumstances.  
  


There's nothing for it, she won't be able to guess, and she sets about getting ready as quickly as she can. Best to hear it from Albus directly and as soon as possible. Somewhat futilely, she tries not to worry in the meantime.

* * *

  


Attendance in the Great Hall isn't as usual this morning. For one thing, Minerva is the only Head of House at the High Table for some time. Filius is presumably with Poppy. She has no idea where Pomona or Severus are. In fact, the Slytherins as a whole seem largely absent. The first and second years arrive later than usual, and for the longest time none of the older Snakes appear. The Hufflepuffs, unlike their Head of House, are present, but seem rather disquieted. 

Minerva doesn't know what to make of it. But if things keep going as they have of late, it probably isn't anything good.

* * *

  


Practice had been an unmitigated disaster. 

Exhausted, the Gryffindor Quidditch team slumps into the Great Hall after their early session. The lack of sleep and the rigour of the exercise have done a number on them, and feeling the weariness in their bones, they slide into their seats. A few may even have groaned. 

Ron and Harry bring up the rear, neither exactly popular after their detentions have so thoroughly bollocksed the practice schedule for the near future. That had been mostly Ron's fault, but Harry's being kind enough to stick by him. If he isn't _personally_ blaming a body for something or wracked with guilt, he can be a decent wingman, although Hermione might beg to differ just at the moment...

Ron no sooner enters the Great Hall than people begin to let him know McGonagall wants a word. It gets annoying, _fast_ , especially because they insist on speculating as to _why_. 

"Hey, _Ron_ , did you hear? _McGonnagall_ wants to _speak_ to you," Kev looks so _very_ smug as he singsongs it. " _Whatever_ could it be _this_ time?" It's probably just as well he has no idea they'd snuck out this morning. He looks like a grass if ever Ron's seen one. 

"Why _thanks_ , Kev. _So_ good of you to mention it. I didn't hear Dhanesh say so at all. Or Kiera. Or Andrew. Or Colin. Or any of the other thirty people to pass that along in the last three minutes. So, yeah, you've been _very_ helpful. _Really_." Harry takes his elbow and tries to steer him further down the table towards the team, getting him a, "Bloody hell, Harry," for his pains, but it doesn't stop Ron whose mouth still keeps going even after he capitulates and follows his friend. "I don't know _what_ I'd have done without you, Kev..." he calls over his shoulder. 

Kev just rubs his still sore face as he watches the boy go. Stupid seventh year. Thinks he's all _that_.  
  


Minerva eventually spots Mr. Weasley and calls out to him. Had she done so a litte sooner, she might have spared him the relentless nagging of his Housemates, but given a choice, this would have suited her better anyway. 

"Mr. Weasley, please come and see me."

Harry gives him a sympathetic glance, but he's clearly in the minority. The reactions vary from curious to gloating to angry.

Seamus growls a threat, "It's bad enough we have to get up at the crack of dawn to practise. So help me, Ron, if you've buggered things up any further..." 

The rest of the team looks to be in agreement. Generally, they've made their dissatisfaction _quite_ clear this morning. The Beaters had seemed inclined to hit every single Bludger whizzing directly towards the back of his head, and at a guess, the Chasers had aimed a fair few his way as well instead of trying for the goals. He'd been so concerned with trying to avoid getting knocked from his broom, he'd let so many Quaffles through the others had begun to talk about whether they needed to get up so early just to keep _him_ as Keeper. 

No, it hadn't gone well. 

His shoulders slouched, he approaches the High Table. Professor McGonagall remains seated and he's forced to stand there in front of her and the entire school. He can hear his Housemates whispering behind him. He'd sort of hoped she'd get up and meet him on the side, but that's just not the way his day is going. 

And it's only breakfast. 

"Would you care to tell me which hex," and the use of that term is _very_ deliberate, particularly as they're unlikely to be overheard by any other students, "you applied to Mr. Peterson yesterday. There seem to be issues with the Countercharm."

Ron risks a glance over his shoulder. Given he'd just _seen_ Kev - bloody hell, he'd _spoken_ to him - and the plank had seemed just _fine_ , ta, he's not sure what McGonagall's on about. He naturally has no way of knowing that Dennis had taken a page from his book and used the hex on some dumb Ravenclaw. 

Mr. Weasley's look towards Mr. Peterson, instead of simply answering her question, angers Minerva notably. It hadn't taken a _single_ evening for one of the younger students to ape his poor example, and he _still_ doesn't seem to see the error of his ways. Her patience is wearing thin. " _Now_ , Mr. Weasley. I haven't got all day."

Ron sputters a little, doesn't see as he has any choice but to answer, and then insists it was a simple Pimple Jinx, which had always been something of a misnomer, not that _that's_ his fault for once. 'Boil Hex' would have been more suited. 

Given he'd learnt it from Harry (who had learnt it from Fred and George), who had applied it rather infamously to Goyle in their fourth year, Ron _really_ doesn't want to say more. Merlin knows, everyone is mad enough at him as it is. He's not about to shop their team captain and make matters any worse. 

Minerva, however, disagrees quite strenuously with his assertion having seen what the hex did to Mr. Peterson. That most certainly was _not_ the result of the Furnunculus. 

She challenges him on it, but Ron holds his ground. He hasn't got much choice, when it comes right down to it, as it's the honest answer. They go back and forth a few times, but she's finally forced to relent. Mr. Weasley is very insistent that _that_ is the Spell he'd used. 

The only explanation is that it had gone wrong. Badly wrong. 

Merlin knows, that happens often enough. 

With some annoyance, she'd hoped this would provide Poppy and Filius with a solution, she dismisses the redhead and he retreats back to the Gryffindor table. 

Indifferent to the reason he'd been called to speak with her, although the facts were only likely to make things worse - that specific hex was the reason for the early morning practices, after all - the others give him even more grief. 

Ron's left wondering why he ever got out of bed.

* * *

  


Albus is late to breakfast. It's been happening often enough of late, he's failing and it's showing, but this morning seems different. For one thing, Pomona enters with him, and neither looks happy. In fact Pomona looks outright saturnine. 

Filius, entering from the other side of the Hall, thus confirming Minerva's 'Infirmary' theory, slips into his seat almost at the same time Albus does and picks up on the Herbologist's mood immediately. "Pomona, what is it, my dear?" She shakes her head in frustration as she takes her seat, but can't seem to find an answer. Her lips are tight, her forehead furrowed, her eyes troubled, and she simply sits there, _louring_ at her House's table. 

Minerva, now also growing nervous, prompts, "Albus?" relying on their long history of shared confidences to tickle this from him as well. 

He sighs heavily and then he tells them the news. "Miss Jones' parents have withdrawn her from the school last night, and in light of the apparent threat, are leaving the country."

Megan Jones is... _was_ a seventh year Muggle-born Hufflepuff. She's in... _was_ in her final N.E.W.T. year, and this close to the end of her schooling, pulling her from the school like that... The only ones to willingly do such a thing in recent memory were the Weasley twins and only because they'd set up shop for themselves soon after. No one else would do something like that voluntarily. It makes no sense. 

Except the Jones family sees that very differently. 

Having done his utmost to convince the Muggle-born witches above the age of majority that there was a _credible_ threat, Albus can scarcely complain that Miss Jones' parents had decided to take it seriously. He's simply displeased with the measures they're taking to neutralise it. 

Minerva and Filius are quick to express their regret at the news, Miss Jones was a sweet girl, and Albus further fills them in, a Privacy Charm keeping the conversation to themselves for the moment. It won't be long, however, before the news spreads. "After I spoke with her Sunday, Miss Jones had owled them that there was an attack here at the school last weekend, and they were exceedingly quick to come to a decision. It would seem they're relocating to _Canada_." That's met with such shock, by all rights one must assume none of them have ever been to visit the country. "She and her father are leaving Britain today, and I gather her mother is putting their affairs in order and will be following soon after."

"Didn't you try to talk some sense into them?" Minerva is appalled. 

"Can Ilvermorny take her midway through the year?" Filius is more practical, not that it means he's more likely to be heard. 

"Of course I did, Min. I spent quite some time last night doing just that while her mother read me the riot act, if you must know. But as _I_ was the one to impress upon her just how dangerous the times have become..."

"You tried to talk her into bonding someone, didn't you?" Minerva accuses. His expression tells them she has the right of it. 

"She wasn't even involved with anyone here!" Pomona is quick to object to the very idea, not that it's material at this stage. 

"And that contributed greatly, I should think, to her unwillingness to even consider that as a solution," Albus replies evenly, but his exhaustion is showing around the edges, and his face is slightly pinched in response to the headache. 

"This isn't something that should be left to a Floo call..."

"Minerva, what do you think of me?" She doesn't reply, but thinks of Miss Granger, and her expression sours. Miss Kilkenny at least had the good fortune to be bonded to someone she's been in a relationship with for a couple of years now. But Miss Granger... "And besides, they weren't on the Floo network at any rate." At that his eyes regain just a bit of their usual twinkle. He's always enjoyed teasing her. "But as they could scarcely come here, I went to see them at her mother's request. 

"Sadly, it wasn't enough."

"As sorry as I am to see her go - she had a _beautiful_ voice and a way with frogs, truly a stand out talent," Filius explains to Minerva, who hasn't taught the girl since her fifth year, and Pomona sits a bit taller with pride at his praise for her little badger, "can you _honestly_ say that's such a bad idea, Albus? I imagine she'll be a great deal safer _there_ than she would be here... even if she _were_ bonded." He's still hoping Albus might come to his senses on that score. It won't change anything for the poor couples already bonded, naturally, but he fervently hopes this madness won't go any further than that. 

Albus still won't hear a word against his bonding scheme, and it's hardly in his best interests to have a substantial portion of his potentially willing army flee. The Muggle-born ultimately should have little choice but to fight if swish comes to curse. 

"But this close to her N.E.W.T.s, Filius, what of her schooling? Her education?" Minerva objects. "She only had a few months more."

Somewhat reluctantly, it feels just a bit too much like betraying the girl, Pomona allows, "It wouldn't have been many N.E.W.T.s, Minerva, even if she succeeded in every course she was taking. She was an industrious girl, you have to give her that, taking seven courses, but at best she could only have earned a N.E.W.T. in Divination and Herbology. Ghoul Studies and Xylomancy only provide certificates of achievement and her art and music classes wouldn't have even done that."

"More's the pity, my dear. More's the pity," Filius tries to reassure her, and pats her hand. "For her frog handling alone, she'd have deserved one."

Turning to the others, Filius tries again to convince Albus, and perhaps even Minerva, to see the sense of the decision, "It's essentially the same as what Professor Taylor's family had done back in his day." They all look in Terrence's, _Call-Me-Terry's_ direction. They're not entirely sure, however, if that's such a winning argument, not precisely convinced of his abilities as they are. On the other hand, it's not clear if that deficiency is actually Ilvermorny's fault, as such. It's entirely possible had the Taylors remained in the country that he'd have graduated from Hogwarts without any more skills or knowledge than he'd managed to acquire there.  
  


It's also possible, _had_ they remained in the country, that he and his parents might have been casualties of the last war. 

It's a sobering thought.

* * *

  


Mr. Wilkes approaches somewhat hesitantly, and interrupts their confab. "Good morning, Sir. Professor Snape sent me?"

"Well, I imagine you would know, Mr. Wilkes," Albus twinkles back, and Wilfred gets his bearing. Dumblebore is _so_ nesh. He stands up a little straighter, looks the old coot in the eye and continues. 

"He requests that you bring him some Universal Solvent from his stores." As the stuff isn't particularly useful and certainly _not_ universal, it gets Wilfred a querying brow and he expands on his request, "There's been an incident." 

Dumbelbore's ' _Hmm, yes, well, I had assumed as much_ ,' soon has him pressing on, "With Vince. And a couch."

Albus nods sagely, smelling a bit of theatre in the air, and rises, excusing himself solemnly from the others, "I fear this is very urgent, and I must see to it immediately." Pomona looks just the slightest bit befuddled, wondering if she's confused the Potions, Minerva and Filius smirk and grin respectively as befits their natures. "Thank you very much, Mr. Wilkes, for informing me. I assume the couch in question was one of your House's, and I shall I find Severus and Mr. Crabbe there then?"

"Oh, yes, Sir, sorry, I should have said." He shifts uncomfortably at being schooled by the old Gryffindor. He needs to up his game. 

At least none of his friends saw it. 

Of course, they were all back in the common room, watching the fun...

"Not to worry, my boy. I imagine had it been any other couch, I'd have heard of it before now." Albus is smirking broadly by now and Minerva is having difficulty not chuckling. It's good to see Albus looking a bit more like himself. The pressure has clearly been getting to him lately. "Go and get yourself something to eat, Mr. Wilkes, and I'll see to the matter."

* * *

  


The unbonded seventh year Hufflepuff witches had woken that morning to discover there were only three beds left in their room. Their first thought, quite reasonably, is that Megan had bonded someone last night and moved out like Salome had done. (Not that _bonding_ anyone strikes them as _reasonable_ , but it _was_ the logical deduction.) That's met with quite a degree of shock, however, as Megan wasn't dating anyone at school. They throw on their robes and rush out into the common room, assuming they'll find another new door present like the Smiths'. 

There isn't one. 

Things go downhill from there. 

It's a draw whether having to look at an absent classmate's bed day in and out is better or worse than Banishing the thing in the long run, but without any question that's a _horrible_ way to discover someone is... gone. Of course, Hogwarts has never been known for its sensitive handling of... well, _most_ things really. 

And once again, the powers that be have made a hash of things. (The Slytherins would cheerily clarify that would be Dumblebore should anyone be unclear on it.)  
  


The Hufflepuffs are all atwitter. 

Megan is missing. 

Megan is absent. 

Megan is... well, _gone_. 

_That's_ the word for it. The problem, of course, is no one knows precisely what that means. 

'Gone'. That's sort of everything and nothing, isn't it?

What it _is_ is scary. 

Megan's disappearance or absence or, well, _goneness_ (they debate briefly and decide it applies) sparks all manner of discussion at breakfast and their table is a murmur of whispered conversations. No one should like to suggest anything... Well, they wouldn't _dream_ of disparaging Megan's character, how rude, and _she_ certainly doesn't deserve that kind of treatment, even if it weren't unconscionably ill-mannered. (Ernie Macmillan blushes rather furiously as he thinks again about the things he'd said and implied yesterday about Hermione... Madam Snape.)

But they really have no explanation for what's happened to Megan. 

People are polled, everyone agrees, she was _fine_ yesterday. 

Leanne Moon had all but one class with Megan on Tuesday, Salome Smith and Roger Malone were in all but two. They'd have noticed if something were amiss, surely? Well, maybe not Salome, but Leanne and Roger would. They're the ones taking the most classes in total with her anyway. Leanne is in _every one_ of Megan's classes, except for her Study Hall. 

She's the hardest hit by this and sits there at breakfast, barely touching her meal. Megan's her closest friend since Katie Bell was in hospital and then graduated last year, and Leanne just can't believe she'd go off like this... Without even _telling_ her... Without saying _goodbye_...

She doesn't know what to think. 

Leanne had had quite a shock last year when Katie fell victim to a cursed necklace on a Hogsmeade trip and then spent the following six months at St. Mungo's. Leanne's always felt guilty for not stopping her friend, she _knew_ Katie was behaving oddly and... Just maybe the tragedy could have been averted if Leanne had done so... Well, she _hadn't_ and _that's_ what came of it. 

Katie might have _died_. 

Megan had been a great consolation. She was such a huge help. She'd been there with Leanne through thick and thin, trying to convince her there was nothing she could have done, it wasn't her fault, and they became a lot closer last year. It helped, of course, that they knew each other so well from all their classes and had so many interests in common, their love of music for one. Megan had also proved to be a really nice person and was... she was _there_ for Leanne when she needed her, and she just can't believe...

Leanne begins to sniffle quietly, and the tears start to form. Roger sits next to her patting her back and trying to console his friend. The problem, naturally, is he doesn't have anything particularly consoling to offer. 

He has no more clue what happened than she does. 

All they have are fears.  
  


Pomona stares blankly at her House's table before shaking herself out of it. The teachers will have to be notified, and she's not at all sure how to break this to her House. On the other hand, looking at them, they seem to be aware that _something_ had happened... They probably fear the worst. At the least, they have to take it into account. It will undoubtably be a consolation to learn their Housemate is well, even if she _is_ moving to the wilds of... Canada. 

Were geography still offered at Hogwarts, perhaps Pomona wouldn't think of _Toronto_ as 'the wilds', but then Albus hadn't gone into much detail when they spoke of it this morning. 

She looks up and down the High Table, searching for faces and then goes back to staring blankly in front of her. "I need to write a note for the teachers," she says woodenly to no one in particular, but as the Privacy Charm is still in effect, Filius and Minerva are the only two to hear. 

Pomona has Miss Jones' schedule for today well in mind. The Music instructor is another one of faculty who reside in Hogsmeade, and like Sarah Sapworthy, the Xylomancy Professor, is rarely present at breakfast. So that's the morning's courses then. After lunch there's Divination, and Sybill, rather typically, isn't here either. Miss Jones' final class of the day would have been Herbology. Well, Pomona will hardly need to inform herself as to the developments. She's well apprised. 

When she continues to sit there unmoving, Filius goes back to patting her hand and Minerva takes wand and a few napkins in hand and soon has Transfigured some parchment, a quill and a small pot of ink that she silently places in front of her friend. 

Both gestures help, although Filius' touch probably does more to shake her out of it. She thanks them both warmly, they're really very good friends, sighs, takes up the quill and begins to write.  
  


Leaving Pomona in Filius' capable hands, Minerva excuses herself to go speak to Poppy before class. She doubts the Mediwitch will find Mr. Weasley's 'Pimple Jinx' claims any more useful than _she_ had, but she'd promised to get her the information and means to keep her word.  
  


Pomona finishes three notes. She has every intention of letting Albus sort the general announcement, and really, by lunch presumably word will have spread anyway. Certainly by dinner. 

She looks at the Hufflepuff table again and weighs who to have bring those notes to her colleagues. Miss Moon, Madam Smith and Mr. Malone are in all of Miss Jones' classes today, but somehow asking Madam Smith to pass along any information seems... ill advised. Ending the Privacy Charm and raising her voice, she calls for Miss Moon and Mr. Malone. 

When they approach and she sees the state of the girl, Pomona takes pity. This will doubtlessly be difficult for her as well. She provides the two of them with a little information - staff aren't speaking of the attack Friday, and as a result there's really not much to offer - but Leanne and Roger leave with the knowledge that as a precaution, in light of the current political climate, Megan's parents have withdrawn her from school and the family is moving to Canada. 

Leanne and Roger haven't much time, but are just able to spread the word amongst their Housemates that Megan's left school due to safety concerns. 

It leaves everyone with a sinking feeling about the state of the war.

* * *

  


Albus emerges from Severus' classroom just as Miss Touchstone whisks past, late for breakfast. There had been rather a dearth of Snakes at the meal this morning, and Albus has no doubt it's related to the... 'incident' Mr. Wilkes had referenced. He looks forward to hearing the story later from Severus. 

He considers - and rejects - asking the Slytherin fifth year Prefect if she'd mind terribly taking the Solvent to her Head of House. The day feels as though it's already been exceptionally long, and Albus is hoping to get a bit of rest before the next challenge rears its head. But the girl is far too Potions savvy and much more likely to look the stuff up should she have any contact with it. He'll either have to take it himself or find someone else. 

Just then the younger Mr. Hutchinson comes sprinting down the corridor. Albus nearly admonishes him for running, and in fact the boy nearly stumbles over his own feet in an effort to stop doing so just as soon as he spots the Headmaster, but Albus greets him with a smile instead. 

"Mr. Hutchinson, headed back to your House I see. How fortuitous. I wonder if I might ask you to do me a little favour..."  
  


The Solvent dispatched to Severus with the appropriate pomp and ceremony - Albus can't recall ever seeing Mr. Hutchinson move in quite such a slow and controlled fashion - he rounds a corner into an alcove and Apparates back to his office from there. 

He doesn't even mind missing breakfast. He hasn't any appetite anyway. Winky can always bring him something to eat later. 

Should he regain his appetite by then, that is.

* * *

  


Ron's in a perfectly wretched mood as they make their way to Charms. The morning hadn't gone well, and apparently he feels it was made worse by the fact that once again, neither 'Mione nor Snape had put in an appearance at breakfast. There had been a little teasing about that, nothing major, until Kev spotted Ron's flush - his neck and ears really do give him away - and then Kev had taken it up a notch or ten to eleven. Others were soon to follow. 

Harry would bet, not that he's sure, but it's a feeling and one he trusts, that this had next to nothing to do with 'Mione or believing what they were saying about her (not that Hermione will be likely to make that distinction), and more to do with tormenting Ron. Far too many appear to think that's a worthwhile goal this week. 

He seems to have half the House angry at him these days. 

Deflecting more than a little, Ron has been fussing up a storm about 'Mione and just what she thinks she's doing with the greasy old bat, undoubtedly having a cozy breakfast for two...

Harry can't believe it for a minute, she'd _never_ , well, not unless the git were in the Infirmary again, although Kev had been quite sure he was not. 

He ought to know. 

But Ron can scarcely complain about his lack of sleep or their early morning practice - they're both very much his own fault. And he can't really say much about the others being so cheesed off with him, or the Bludgers he took or dodged. It's only fair, really. Or about McGonagall being so angry. Or even about the teasing that had annoyed him so. So he vents about the thing that _isn't_ his fault, at least how he sees it. 

'Mione and her bonding the bloody dungeon bat. 

Except Harry's a lot less sure as to the question of fault, and he grows more and more quiet as Ron goes on - and _on_ he goes - wondering just how much the two of them did to cause this. And just what 'this' really was. 

The problem there, obviously, is Ron isn't going to handle _that_ knowledge well. Harry understands this intuitively, too. And for 'Mione's sake, they're probably all best off if Ron doesn't give that any further thought. Harry really shouldn't like to picture what the ginger would do then. 

Harry might be taking the simpler way out, as Hermione most definitely _won't_ see Ron's never-ending stream of abuses as remotely for her benefit. How could she?

It's all a bit of a muddle. 

Coming of age frequently is.  
  


Ron's just finished another tirade of epic proportions. Harry's stopped listening to the words, but the emotions still get through, and growing tired of the whole thing, he tries to reason with his friend. 

"Ron, you need to calm down, mate."

"Yeah?" Ron whips around to face him, happy for any target to pour out his anger upon and Harry realises the magnitude of his mistake. "You think I should be _alright_ with this? How would you feel if Gin had married the old bat instead? How'd that be? Huh, mate? Still be telling me to calm down?" 

Well, for one thing, then it would probably be the other way around, but presumably that's not the issue. Harry is about to point out that _unlike_ Ron and Hermione, he had actually _dated_ Ginny, but then he's honestly not sure how much those few weeks should count for in the grand scheme of things. 

When Harry, showing a bit of common sense, keeps those thoughts to himself, Ron continues, taking it for agreement. "Yeah, I thought so." 

_Then_ Harry kind of wants to point out that _unlike_ Ron, once Harry had realised he was interested in Ginny, _he_ hadn't run around snogging someone else in front of her every chance he got and driving her to tears. Because he knows for a fact Ron had. Made 'Mione cry. Often even. 

Looking at the sullen ginger, he can't help thinking things may not have changed all that much. 

They enter Charms with Ron in a right state. 

Of course that's not improved when Hermione enters a moment later with a _Slytherin_ entourage.  
  


Blimey.

  



	97. 11 12j Wednesday - Morning Classes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Severus (HoS, Potions), Hermione 7G (Prefect, Supreme Swot)**
> 
> **Staff:**  
>  Professor Filius Flitwick (HoR, Charms), Albus Dumbledore (dying Headmaster, but ffs, not nearly fast enough...), Professor Septima Vector (Arithmancy, but that hardly counts, or was that the students?) 
> 
> **Slytherins:**  
>  Draco 7S (Prefect, Team Captain, Seeker, Swot), Theo Nott 7S (Swottiest, Nervous Wreck), Blaise Zabini 7S (Keeper (but only in the Quidditch sense...)), Vincent 'Vince' Crabbe 7S (Beater, Winged Couch Potato), Gregory Goyle 7S (Beater)  
> Tracey Davis 7S (Swottier), Daphne Greengrass 7S (Sparkly! Fwoopers!), Pansy Parkinson 7S (Prefect), Millicent 'Millie' Bulstrode (Reserve Beater, yes, _that_.), Alberta Runcorn 7S (Grumpy.)  
>  Hunter Hutchinson 4S (Imp, Take-Out Delivery Boy)
> 
> **Gryffindors:**  
>  Harry 7G (Team Captain, Seeker, the Boy-Who-Lived-to-Annoy-Severus), Ron Weasley 7G (Prefect, Keeper (but also only in the Quidditch sense), the Boy-Who-Exists-to-Annoy-Hermione), Neville Longbottom 7G (errant Herbal Knight), Seamus Finnigan 7G (fiery Reserve Beater), Dean Thomas 7G (Chaser), Lavender 'Lav' Brown 7G (blonde!), Parvati Patil 7G
> 
> **Ravenclaws:**  
>  Mandy Brocklehurst 7R (musical), Kevin Entwhistle 7R and Steven Cornfoot 7R, Darius Inglebee 4R (Reserve Chaser, impatient Patient), Stewart Ackerly 4R (Beater) 
> 
> **Hufflepuffs:**  
>  Hannah Abbott 7H (Prefect), Megan Jones 7H (Muggle-born), Ernie Macmillan 7H (Head Boy)
> 
> **Others:**  
>  Sunny (the Snapes' house elf), Slinky (the Slytherin House's chief house elf), Mafalda Hopkirk (wispy Witch of the Webs), Rita Skeeter ( _You_ -Know-Who), Reginald 'Reg' Cattermole (Maintenance Mouse)
> 
> **Mentioned briefly:** **Staff:** Poppy Pomfrey (Mediwitch extraordinaire), Professor Minerva McGonagall (HoG, Transfiguration), **Slytherins:** Flora Carrow 6S (friendly twin), Hestia Carrow 6S (Chaser, sporty twin), Sheldon Shafiq 6S (Reserve Beater, and charm on legs), Torsten Touchstone 6S (sleepyhead, heir to the Touchstone fortune), Tomasina Touchstone 5S (Prefect, Potions savvy heiress), Bartholomew 'Bart' Burke 5S (sallow), **Gryffindors:** Fay Dunbar 7G (Reserve Chaser), Georgina Smith 7G ('Fay's ginger friend'), Dennis Creevey 4G (almost as bad as Colin), **Ravenclaws:** Morag MacDougal 7R, Eddie Carmichael R'97 (Potions Dealer), **Hufflepuffs:** Salome Smith 7H (née Perks, bonded to Zacharias Smith 6H), Susan Bones 7H, **Others:** Corban Yaxley (DE), Pius Thicknesse (Imperiused DMLE Head)
> 
> * * *
> 
> * * *
> 
>   
> **Previously:**  
>  Tuesday evening, the Bloody Baron alerted Hermione to seven fourth year boys duelling. She put an end to the fighting and discovered four Ravenclaws had attacked lone Hufflepuff Newton Kurz for botching their potions in Severus' class Monday. Dennis Creevey from Gryffindor and Hunter Hutchinson from Slytherin had come to his rescue, but were outnumbered. (080)
> 
> * * *
> 
> * * *
> 
>   
>  **Portrait of Sunny in his work robes provided by the most _magnificent_ MyWitch. ❤️**

Hermione, Harry and Ron enter into a pattern during the first week. The arguments ramp up between the friends. Harry does try occasionally to find out what's going on with her, but Hermione can't tell him, and he only really half wants to know. With the Oath in place, if he doesn't try to work for it - and he doesn't - he'll never learn what happened. But then it doesn't help in the least that it isn't his wheelhouse. 

His weaknesses aside, Harry's still very hurt, and that gets in the way of things in a substantial manner. He can't believe she'd marry _Snape_ , of all people, and never say a word to him first. Or _after_ , if it comes to that. The only reason he can think of for that is if she's _so_ angry with him that there isn't any way back for them anyhow, and then he'd really just as soon never learn of it. 

He has enough crosses to bear. 

Ron's ever constant presence makes talking to her rationally a good deal more difficult, too. And of course Harry's attempts to mediate between his friends don't magically improve. He unfortunately persists in trying to couch Ron's objections to and general displeasure with the bonding - with which he's privately inclined to agree - in ever so _slightly_ less insulting terms, which only serves to render them more so in Hermione's eyes. It's two against one, after all, and the incessant badgering of a recent assault victim... It hardly helps matters any. 

If Harry had to guess, he'd say Ginny was right. 'Mione seems to be on something. Sure, she usually fights back when Ron attacks, that seems to be deeply ingrained enough that it's something like an automatic response, but her heart just isn't in it. Not by her standards. She hasn't hexed him once, or even run off crying, which... Yeah. Harry's glad she doesn't, of course, but that probably really _does_ mean she's taking one of the Draughts, when he stops to think about it. Merlin, her hair hardly even crackles...

For his part, Harry's desperate for his worst fears to be wrong, eager to take any sign that she's alright as proof he's mistaken in them (it can't all be down to a Draught, can it?), and he credits those signs with more truth than they properly merit. Compounding their problems, they don't see one another outside of classes. Hermione is avoiding meals in the Great Hall, and between detentions and Quidditch practice, and of course the boys' natural disinclination to spend more time than necessary in the library, there's really not much occasion to. 

That might provide a little insight into why they have so few friends outside of their House were anyone giving it any thought. 

None are; they're too preoccupied with their own problems. 

But unlike in the past when the boys were content to simply ignore Hermione when there were problems, Ron seems to instinctively be trying to deflect any possibility for blame by laying it all mercilessly at her feet. Which only confirms Harry's fears that he'd be absolutely _impossible_ if he ever learnt even a hint about what Harry worries has happened. 

It's a horrific mess.

* * *

  


Severus still has his hands full with Crabbe. He and Goyle are the only two seventh years to have the first period free, and the House is essentially empty. 

On consideration, Severus decides that he can't afford to send the boy to the Infirmary with the stitches still showing around his mouth; the lacerations, of course, are another matter. But the Shrunken Head Preparation Charm will undoubtably bring up too many questions both as to who cast it and why. 

He gives it a bit of thought and then decides the best option is to pull the threads by hand. It's all a matter of how one defines 'best', of course. It's not _convenient_ , as he has to bow and weave and bend to avoid the flapping wings, but it's certainly more painful than Vanishing them would have been. He pretends to believe that wouldn't have worked. It _might_ even be true. Crabbe is too far gone to care just now. Later will probably be a different story. 

Severus Transfigures a foot long set of pincers that he uses to pull a few threads before growing impatient. Experimentally, he casts a Partial Body-Bind and the wings still. The horrible groan Crabbe gives as he does it leaves him convinced that the solution is... satisfactory. 

Apparently, they still very much wish to flap, and with the raw skin on the boy's back, that proves excruciatingly painful. More than once as the boy kneels there whimpering, it crosses Severus' mind that _this_ was the toad who had purchased _that_ potion, brought it to Minerva's classroom, and insisted on its administration to Miss Granger. 

For a laugh, he'd told the other boys. 

He's not laughing now. 

He's still on his hands and knees, those incredible wings frozen above him, sniffling as Severus impassively tweezers those threads from his lips one by one, when Gregory returns from their room. As everyone else had done this morning, he once again finds himself stopping at the landing to take in the incredible sight. Vince can be grateful there's no one else to witness this. 

Of course that's completely neglecting to consider the portraits and their fondness for telling stories. They'll undoubtedly be telling _this one_ _centuries_ from now. 

They provide something of a running commentary as Severus works. Their abrupt silence once Goyle reappears alerts him to the boy's presence. 

"Goyle," Severus drawls lazily, never once looking in his direction, "I need you to go to my classroom and let the students in. My first period Potions class should be starting soon, and they'll be queueing up before a warded door otherwise." Gregory looks half panicked at that. "You will _not_ be required to instruct the class." He informs him. The very idea is absurd. The fact Goyle seems to relax upon hearing the information is even more so, as though he'd actually _considered_ it a possibility...

"The passphrase is 'Gary Gilmore's Eyes'," which Gregory thinks sounds _horrible_ , but naturally doesn't ask. He simply repeats it dumbly. "Quite. Go and let them into the room. You will _not_ have access to my stores. As such they will be unable to brew," as if having them brew under Goyle's supervision were even _vaguely_ an idea filled with any promise beyond Infirmary stays, "and you'll instruct them to begin writing their assignment on Alihotsy, its uses and proper handling." 

He cringes inwardly at having to send _Goyle_ , but at least it isn't a N.E.W.T.s class, and the boy was never anywhere nearly as bad as Longbottom or Kurz. 

His nerves at the task still evident, Gregory begins to head for the exit. "You should take your books with you, Goyle. I doubt you'll have occasion to return here before you need to go to History of Magic. I would hope even Professor Binns should object if you appear to his class so thoroughly unprepared."

Goyle comes to an immediate halt and whips around, about to race back to his room for his books, "Shall I fetch Vince's as well?"

"Generous of you to offer," Severus almost sneers and then looks purposefully at the boy kneeling on all fours before him. "But I rather doubt he'll have need of them this morning. Poppy may yet prove me wrong, but in that case, I imagine we'd permit him to return to the dungeons to fetch his things, don't you agree?"

Honestly, at this point Gregory's inclined to agree with _anything_ the man says. Nodding he runs for his room once more to retrieve his books, and it's not long before he's back and zipping out the door.  
  


It takes Severus a little while yet to work the tangled strings from Crabbe's skin. He has to give to Burke, the hex was brilliantly selected. The job isn't any worse than preparing a great many potions ingredients, and the satisfaction is more... _visceral_. 

He has no intention of addressing Crabbe's various wounds, the extensive rash now forming down his front from the Solvent or the state of his nose. That's Poppy's territory. The wings can stay put, as far as he's concerned; he nearly chuckles at the pun. And then he weighs whether the pain the bind causes is actually worse than the apparent humiliation of flapping fairy wings... It's a toss up. 

The boy's back, likewise, can remain as it is for the moment. He'll tell Poppy it was probably something that went wrong - much like the ears which he's frankly uncertain how to sort on the fly - and she'll treat it symptomatically, or ask Filius for assistance; the Charmsmaster generally welcomes a challenge. The hair and nails can also remain; no one would expect Severus to address such trivial problems when he has classes to instruct. 

Which means he's taken this charade as far as he must. 

He fishes in his pocket for some Dittany, Transfigures the tweezers into a giant cotton swab which he sterilises, and then he dips it into the Dittany and daubs it about Crabbe's mouth. Soon there's no outward trace left from Burke's hex. He returns the pot of Dittany to his robe pocket and Untransfigures the swab back into the magazine he'd used for the purpose and Banishes it back to its table. 

"Crabbe, if you wish, I'll release the wings from their bind again. My impression is it's causing you some discomfort," he offers before moving the boy. Nearly too exhausted to sob, Vince merely nods his head.

* * *

  


Daphne approaches Professor Flitwick before class starts to request a pass to the Restricted Section for research. Much as Hestia had expected, he gives it to her without thinking twice. He doesn't even ask 'why'. It doesn't console her as to the responses from her Housemates that _she'd_ be one of the people researching bonds, but she's grown used to that and it's nice to know staff, at least, see her as competent and trustworthy. She neglects to consider that her trustworthiness is part of why her Housemates view her with some scepticism.

Before she can take her seat, that knob Weasley apparently laces into Hermione, and there's a slight to do. 

Well, maybe not so slight... 

Ron's general displeasure with Hermione and her bonding has been exacerbated to the point of being unbearable by the teasing he's been subjected to this morning. He's now in a far worse mood thanks to everyone, _everywhere_ being on his case for absolutely _everything_. Or so it seems. He kicks off with 'Mione and before Daphne can even take her seat, but some of the other Slytherins are quick to tell him to get stuffed. 

"Shut your yob, Weasel," Draco commands imperiously. Another so deeply ingrained reaction that he could probably have managed it even if he _hadn't_ had the Pain Relief.  
"I swear I just saw yesterday's chicken when he opened his mouth..." Tracey shudders.  
"Disgusting," Millie agrees, although no one is sure if she means the Weasel in general, his eating habits, or Tracey's remark.  
"No one wants to hear anything _you've_ got to say, Weasel," Blaise is nearly as imperious as Draco, but he'd had a far easier night. He could probably learn a thing or two from the Malfoys. Then again...  
"Why don't you find some Flobberworms to entertain?" Alberta taunts.  
"They _might_ be willing to suffer his company," Pansy acknowledges with a laugh.  
Theo just slumps in his seat, staring apathetically ahead. 

The Gryffindors, naturally, don't sit still for any of that. 

"Shut it yourself, Malfoy," Harry replies originally, that's also a hardwired response.  
"You're the only disgusting thing here, Bulstrode," Lav snarls.  
"As though anyone would listen to you, Zabini," Dean taunts back.  
"And just how is he supposed to tell the Flobberworms apart from your family?" Seamus gets in his dig at Runcorn.  
"It's probably preferable to yours," Parvati snits at Parkinson, but it gets a bit confused in the jumble of jeers, and no one seems sure what she meant. On the other hand, no one seems inclined to give it much thought, either.  
Neville sits there desperately wishing he were in the greenhouse, while Ron and Hermione bicker. When he can listen to it no more, he turns to Ron and feels forced to say, "You're out of line, mate."  
It draws Harry's attention. 

Flitwick calls the group to order. His squeak will have made all the difference, as usual. 

What finally does the trick is a non-verbal Langlock from Harry that muzzles Ron, at least for the moment. He's both so angry and so startled, that he doesn't think to cast the Countercharm, and Professor Flitwick tries once more, again audible in the sudden silence. 

"Now, now class. I think that's quite enough. Take your places please."

It's almost as much luck as anything else that they actually do so, but then people tend to forget Filius is a champion of the duelling circuit. If that _hadn't_ done the trick, he might - possibly - have considered using a Charm to sort it.  
  


But then again, he so _hates_ to resort to force...

* * *

  


There aren't a great deal of options for moving Crabbe to the Infirmary. With those wings, he wouldn't fit through the Floo, and the House Floos aren't connected anyway. Albus has taken that measure for their security at least. Crabbe doesn't quite seem up to the task of walking, and with the size of the wings, Severus imagines it could prove difficult. He's fairly certain they're longer than the boy in both directions. (He pictures Crabbe trying to tiptoe to the Infirmary, and it immediately improves his mood.) Shafiq had come up with a truly elegant idea, the oversized wings being simultaneously more insidious than one might assume at first glance, and considering the subject, _guaranteed_ to be found _thoroughly_... humiliating.

He also can't imagine the boy would be able fly... He manages not to suggest it. 

"Very well, up with you then," he gives the slightest bit of warning before a Mobilicorpus lifts the seventh year from the floor. His legs naturally hang, dragging. A few twists of Severus' wand, and Crabbe's orientation shifts so that the boy's rump, and subsequently the wings, too, are pointed higher in the air. His arms hang now as well, but his legs no longer touch the ground. "I mustn't leave my class in Goyle's incapable hands longer than absolutely necessary."

Vince grunts in reply. Severus decides to take it for agreement. 

He's able to get Crabbe to the exit with fairly little difficulty. Several of the Snitches attached to the ceiling in the corridor respond to being brushed by his wings by flapping their own, and they leave the passageway behind them, abuzz with the sound of beating wings. 

A fitting way to mark the occasion, somehow. 

They'll still be fluttering when Tracey and Flora return to brew at lunch, much to the girls' puzzlement.  
  


The exit, opening again in response to Severus' approach, very fortunately for Crabbe manifests both taller and wider than it does for the students. Although it takes Severus three tries and a fair amount of scrapping (to which _he's_ indifferent, but _Crabbe_ is not) of those surprisingly robust - but acutely _sensitive_ \- wings, he eventually manages to squeeze Crabbe through into the hallway.  
  


They haven't far to go to the Potions classroom and even with the slightly awkward progress the Mobilicorpus dictates, they arrive only a few minutes later. 

And now Severus is faced with a few decisions to maximise his amusement. 

Crabbe won't fit through the door. There's no question about it, at least not shy of a human Transfiguration that most definitely shouldn't be risked in light of everything else he has going on at the moment. Or having Albus restructure the castle. So clearly not. Obviously Crabbe must stay - flapping - in the hallway. Severus also has a number of rather pressing errands he'd like to perform, and the... issues with Crabbe had robbed him of the time he'd meant to use to address them this morning. 

As ridiculous as it may seem, he will need to take advantage of Goyle's presence to mind his class while he does so. 

"Crabbe, you'll need to remain here while I take care of a few things. Goyle will be with you shortly and bring you to the Infirmary. I'm ending the Mobilicorpus now. Do you believe you'll be able to stand on your own?" An utter lack of concern - that even Vince in his present state fails to overhear - rings through the question belying the words, but at least things seem to be going in the right direction. Vince tries to be cooperative. 

"I think so," he replies immediately, trying to avoid the appearance of seeking sympathy he is quite sure he won't receive. He soon discovers standing is more difficult than he imagined, the wings threatening to overset him, and their constant scraping along the stone floor proves quite uncomfortable. That still might not be such a problem in and of itself, but with the Desiccation Charm rendering his back little more than cracked leather, the added resistance proves incredibly painful. Severus had thought it might. 

Not a minute later, Crabbe is balancing precariously on his toes, trying to put an end to that. It's really not far off how Severus had imagined it, and in fact, he hadn't thought to include the rather comical facial expression in his mental image that he now gladly revises. 

Vince is also weak on his legs, and doesn't for a second believe he can maintain this pose. What a shame. Of course, if he can't stand, he can't sit, and leaning back against the wall is equally out of the question. He briefly considers lying face down in the middle of the floor. It seems the best solution by far...

Severus takes it in and makes a suggestion. "This may take a few minutes. Perhaps if you were to extend your arms above your head, lean forward and prop them against the wall, you'd gain enough clearance for your... wings."

Vince, more than a little desperate, is willing to try it. 

"You will do so here," Severus indicates the spot directly across from his classroom door, "so that Goyle will be in a position to monitor you should there be any... _further_... difficulties." 

Vince is happy to oblige. Yes, it would be good not to be left on his own as he'd been this morning, wouldn't it, and quickly assumes the position much to Severus' delight. He stands there savouring the view for a moment, Crabbe truly is a sight for the gods, presumably Loki, and fleetingly Severus wonders if this memory is something that might some day provide Miss Granger with a measure of peace, or at least vindication. 

He imagines it's both too dark and far too soon. 

Pity. 

It was a sight worth sharing. 

The blood stained tatters of clothing provide a very grim counterpoint to the glinting, iridescent purple fairy wings merrily fluttering away as the boy balances in a position the constabulary might favour for managing their worst suspects... With Crabbe's hands spread against the wall like that, the black nails really do stand out better. And of course this way the Bundimun colour of his hair is also displayed to full advantage. Severus has no doubt the wretch's arms will cramp and tire soon. He's rather counting on it. 

"But I don't imagine there will be any more difficulties, do you?" It sounds an awful lot like a warning. Vince thinks that's fairly obvious. 

What also should have been obvious is that that location won't just provide _Goyle_ with an excellent view of Crabbe as he stands there flapping.

Severus magics the door open and strides purposefully (and rather dramatically) into his classroom, all heads turning as he does so. It doesn't take long, of course, for their focus to shift from him to the spectacle in the hallway, and so many necks crane as the students struggle to take in the sight, he'd almost worry that a few might fall from their seats were he given to such things. (He is not.)

Goyle jumps from his chair, unsure if he's even permitted to sit in the Professor's spot, and his blood freezes initially when the Potions Master addresses him. 

"Goyle..."

"Sir?" His voice breaks under the tension, and at least one of the Ravenclaws chuckles. 

"I need you to keep an eye on the class a little longer while I make a few arrangements. Your escapades this morning have been... inconveniencing." For a minute Gregory stands there blinking wondering what _he'd_ done - well, this morning anyway; and then he tries not to wonder about what led to the bondings again - before he accepts that the Head means their House as a whole. Fair enough. "You may alert me if there's any change for the worse in Crabbe's condition. 

"Class, _do_ make an effort to continue your work. And I expect you to remain in your seats," that last is addressed at a Hufflepuff who will doubtlessly land on the floor in a matter of moments if he tries to keep up his balancing act. "I do _not_ wish to be disturbed." 

Severus sweeps past them into his office without sparing anyone a further glance and closes the door behind him. Almost simultaneously the class leaps from their seats to crowd around the open door. No one is _ever_ going to believe this. Gregory does his very best to try to get them to retake their places and be quiet until one enterprising Ravenclaw thinks to suggest that if he would just be quiet himself, they could all agree to keep quiet as well, and as a whole they're less likely to disturb the Head in the process. It sounds suspiciously like blackmail, and rather Snakelike for a Turkey. Goyle's almost impressed. 

"And we can look faster that way," comes the final assurance. 

Gregory isn't at all sure that's how it works, but he also wasn't having much luck getting them to sit back down. Finally he stops trying and goes back to sitting in the Professor's chair. Which is a very weird sensation indeed. _Him_ , sat there like _that_. 

No one's ever going to believe that either.

* * *

  


Meanwhile in London...

Promptly as the doors open Wednesday morning, Rita Skeeter - Quick-Quotes-Quill and scores of scrolls of parchment in her bag - storms into the Ministry of Magic's Office for the Registration of Births, Deaths, Marriages, Bonds, and Other Inconveniences. Mafalda Hopkirk, in her third position at the Ministry this year alone and standing by her lonesome behind the counter, shudders reflexively at the sight. 

"I want to see the recent records of Bonds," Rita tells her officiously, and all attempts to explain there is no such thing fall on deaf ears. 

But there's little point to arguing with the pushy blonde, Mafalda can see the witch's Self-Writing Quill furiously at work as their standoff continues. A glance at the scroll shows statements like 'Ministry conspiracy to hide the information from the public' and 'wispy old witch refusing access to the beautiful and intrepid reporter' which is particularly insulting as Mafalda happens to know for a _fact_ that Rita was a couple of years ahead of her at school. 

Deciding it's easier to simply prove she's correct, Mafalda leads Rita through the dusty stacks into a back office where she needs to retrieve the key. Bonds are so rare and generally so well known, that no one has needed to look them up in... it may have been decades. The key, improbably, seems even older than the building, but it's generally best not to question that. 

Key in hand, they march still further back into the cavernous halls of records, progressing to a door that seems older yet. That, too, probably shouldn't be questioned. Mafalda finds that makes her work a good deal simpler. It's a seemingly medieval affair, on ancient goblin wrought iron hinges, studded with nails and coated in dust and spiderwebs. It refuses to yield even after Mafalda applies the key, insults are briefly exchanged as to competency, _it most certainly_ is _the proper key_ , an Alohamora fails to work, unsurprisingly, and finally the witches acknowledge: it's just plain stuck. 

A bit belatedly, Mafalda casts a Cleaning Charm on the door, but by that point her hair truly _is_ wispy with cobwebs. 

Realising the longer it takes to open it, the longer she's stuck with Rita, Mafalda throws her all into it, but there's nothing for it. 

Magical Maintenance is called and the witches spend an uncomfortable half an hour together waiting until Reg Cattermole comes by with muttered apologies about how Thicknesse's new bright boy Yaxley was complaining about the temperature of his office in the DMLE again...

Except Reg isn't able to open the door either. 

It's like it has a mind of its own. 

Which isn't entirely impossible. 

Rita's Quill is scribing up a storm, and Mafalda can just picture the headlines. It proves motivating. She resumes her efforts to get the door open at any price, and Rita, a witch insensitive to boundaries on a good day, doesn't wait long before she begins trying to assist their efforts. 

What finally does the trick is a tin of Sleekeazy's Rita withdraws after a quick root about her bag. Application to the hinges and lock do in fact tame the recalcitrant door, and garner Mafalda a few snide remarks about how her hair would be less wispy were she to make use of the stuff every now and again.

"Our doors don't generally require it," she tells Rita, with an expression so earnest that for a moment the reporter thinks she means it. As though _that_ would affect her hair. Rita decides the witch is fool enough that she _could_ be serious. 

Curious, Reg hangs about and watches as the witches bring forth the most recent tome, originating some time three centuries ago and still largely empty. 

Releasing a large puff of dust, Mafalda sets the book gingerly upon a nearby lectern and the three crowd around to see the proof that Rita's wrong once again. 

Except she isn't. 

There black on magnolia, are _three_ new entries recording the bondings of three couples just this week alone. 

Mafalda's never seen anything like it. 

Reg can't wait to tell his wife. She'll never believe it. 

Rita's Quill knocks it up a gear, transcribing the details about Little-Miss-Perfect-Prefect's bonding to the Scoundrel Potions Prof. They're thin, practically emaciated, but that's never been much of a disadvantage for Rita. On the contrary, it leaves her with fewer facts to have to work around.  
  


Later today Mafalda will receive a tin of Sleekeazy's by owl, thanking her for assistance. _She_ won't be quite sure how Rita meant that either.

* * *

  


Severus takes a seat at his office desk. It's... acceptable, but if he's honest, he never liked it as much as the desk and chair in his... erstwhile study. Of course, he may be focusing on that chair more because he's lost it. 

The first thing he does is to check the class schedules for his seventh years, and he opens a drawer, shuffles a few papers and removes a scroll that lists them. He needs to find times when they all have courses. All but Crabbe and Goyle have class this period, and he has them both... occupied. All of them have classes the periods after, either double Arithmancy, History of Magic or Xylomancy. (And the fact he doesn't scoff for once when he reads 'Xylomancy' betrays just how much he is concentrating on the problem and his attempt to solve it.)

The next thing he does is to call for Sunny, who appears silently before him almost instantly. He'd noticed early in his tenure as a Professor that the elves are _capable_ of fading silently in and out of sight. They certainly do so to perform a substantial portion of their chores. But they had a habit of making rather loud noises when Apparating in the presence of humans. A little digging had revealed that they consider it good form - Merlin knows witches and wizards tend to be noisy enough about it - and after some negotiations Severus had been able to convince Sunny to stop deliberately faking the noise. 

He much prefers the result. 

"Yes, oh Master of Potions, Sir? How can Sunny help?"

"I was... surprised this morning to learn Crabbe had been thoroughly hexed."

Sunny has heard the portraits whispering. By now he has a fair idea as to what had happened and why. "Members of the House is wishing to help the Master of Potions," he suggests in answer with a reassuring nod.

"I'm afraid you don't take my meaning, Sunny. Did you know of this in advance and not inform me?" Ear-wringing ensues with the démenti. "Then do you perhaps have any idea why Slinky failed to report it to you?" 

Over the years, Severus has gained rather a lot of experience with the house elves. For one thing, he knows he's more likely to get a straight answer from Sunny than Slinky. For another, he knows no elf can be relied upon to _ever_ give him a straight answer. He is also well aware that their internal rivalries and schemings far surpass even those of the students. Or Death Eaters, for that matter. He imagines the only thing worse than teaching a horde of young witches and wizards would be playing nursemaid to a squabble of house elves. Heaven forfend. 

Sunny's ear-wringing transitions smoothly to an attempt to slam his fingers in the desk drawer, but Severus is easily able to stop him. "Kindly leave my desk alone and take a seat. We're pressed for time." He looks stern - far sterner than he feels - and that seems to satisfy whatever need for punishment drives the little elf, who - evidently _thoroughly_ chastised - crawls into the visitor's chair on the other side of the desk with drooping ears, a picture of abject misery. 

Elves have rather a knack for the theatrical. 

"Slinky is wanting to disturb the Head last night, he is, and Sunny is wanting to stop him."

"So the two of you exchanged words, or did you hex him?"

Sunny looks just the slightest bit sheepish, and Severus assumes some magic was used. Well, that would explain it. They bicker not infrequently, and it's not as though the little creatures were likely to have come to blows. "I expect the two of you to get past that. I rely upon you to keep me informed... expeditiously." 

Ultimately the portraits will keep him apprised of developments in a pinch, but it's more convenient if the elves work together as they should, and very politic to say so. 

Predictably, Sunny brightens visibly in his seat, but then a wrinkle of consternation appears on his brow. 

"Never fear, Sunny. I will be telling Slinky very much the same thing, I assure you." 

Sunny's answering grin confirms both that _that_ had been his worry, and that he can't possibly have been as upset as he had appeared just moments ago, or at least not as humans might experience the emotions. There's a very real possibility that it manifests differently in elves. 

"Now I have an errand for you, and I need you to carry it out as quickly as you can. If we're to do this properly, we only have until lunch to finish, am I clear?" Frantic nodding follows which Severus ignores. Elves are far too enthusiastic for his tastes, of course, but he's been known to channel them once in a while when You-Know-Who proves particularly difficult to appease. If anything, that makes the elves' servile agreeability even more difficult for Severus to stomach. 

Ah, but then _that_ was what the Touchstone's Triple T was for...

"I need you to gather every single potion - all of them - from our seventh year boys and bring them to me to evaluate, and then you will have to return them to their original locations before anyone could conceivably return to the dorms for the lunch break. Do you think that will be possible?"

None of them have siblings, which simplifies things. They are far less likely to have someone outside of the family store contraband for them, but that's likely to change, and quickly, once they realise a search is on. This operation needs to happen smoothly and rapidly, before anyone realises what they're doing. 

Sunny doesn't answer immediately, but takes a moment to fret instead. Hmm. Bad sign that. 

It takes him a few minutes that Severus reluctantly sits through, some things just won't be rushed, but he eventually spits it out. "Sunny fetches potions, yes, but after Sunny is taking Pain Relieving Potions this weekend, the boys, they is being sneakier, yes?"

He's correct; it's a strong possibility. One might also assume that the students _hadn't_ hidden their Pain Relief, making it easier to find. (Although after last weekend, one may safely assume they'll begin to bunker it as well.) Now that they've been forewarned that things are disappearing, it will be more difficult to impound potions. And they're a crafty lot. They have good hiding places. Sunny makes it clear, he _can_ do this, the boys never consider placing wards against elves - it's unlikely they even know any - but it _will_ be difficult to hide the undertaking from Slinky, particularly if Severus wants him to act quickly. 

Severus thinks about it briefly and takes a decision. "Fine, wait here." He crosses to his hearth, throws in some Floo powder and calls for Albus. It takes him a bit to answer, but when he does, Severus turns to Sunny and tells him, "Give me five minutes and then send Slinky to see me. I have an assignment for him as well. And then start _immediately_ on that errand just as soon as he leaves." 

Sunny is gone in an instant and Severus returns his attention to Albus, who has taken advantage of the opportunity to observe him more closely. 

"Why, Severus," he smarms, "you're _glowing_. I'd say married life agrees with you." 

Severus just crouches there, silently blinking as he counts to ten. There are days he'd happily Avada the man, but he can't help wondering if that's half the point. _This_ , of course, was just another example of the imperfections of Notice-Me-Nots and a disadvantage of having used Albus' besides. 

"Glower's Glowing Elixir, more like, but thank you for noticing, Albus. You're too kind, as always.

"I needed to speak with you about taking more... lasting measures to ensure the boys are incapable of further... action any time soon." Albus cocks a brow, reasonably certain he understands what the wizard is asking. 

"Were you thinking along permanent lines?"

"No, or at least, not at the present. Naturally, I'm willing to amend that should it prove necessary." It's not clear if he means it, and at this point he probably doesn't. What _is_ true, however, is if he _ever_ had to reevaluate that decision, he almost certainly _would_ be willing to consider permanent options. "You said I had your blessings to... deal with them as I see fit. You haven't changed your mind?"

"No, Severus. I trust your judgment." It helps, no doubt, that the only ones likely to suffer for it are Slytherins. Were it a matter of punishing Gryffindors, Severus is quietly sure the answer would have been different. 

It always has been. 

"I meant to enlist Slinky for the undertaking."

That gets him another raised brow in challenge, but then Albus only nods. "As I said, I trust your judgment."

The disadvantage there is that Slinky's allegiances are a great deal more complex than Sunny's. 

Slinky had known almost all of the students' parents. In the whole House, there were a total of two fathers, one grandmother and one grandfather who'd gone to Durmstrang, and a single mother who had attended Beauxbatons. And not that Slytherins generally tended to, but after the last war, not a one had married a Muggle. _All other parents_ and most of theirs were known to the elf. It makes it more precarious to trust him with things that are to remain hidden, as one can never entirely know where his loyalties might lie. But Severus treats him well, and providing him with missions that require, that _demonstrate_ trust... Over the years that's proven a good way to keep their elves loyal. Demonstrating trust to promote behaviour worthy of it. 

But then cleverly Severus' idea isn't dependent on that trust _not_ being broken. It will simply appear that way. 

"It would be... helpful if I can claim you insisted upon it in order for them to remain at school."

"I think I can agree to that. Especially if I needn't do so officially."

"No, of course not. Officially, we haven't spoken at all." He sounds just slightly bitter. 

"Why, Severus, I still don't even know what you're planning to do..."

Severus smirks and begins to answer, "I mean to have Slinky..." but Albus withdraws with a chuckle, ending the connection. 

Typical. 

Moments later, the elf in question appears before him. First, Severus takes him to task for this morning's communication failure, but after emphasising how _terribly_ important Slinky's role is in ensuring that works as it should, he assumes the elf is suitably inveigled to address the more pressing matters. 

It's just another application of stick and treacle coated veg, the latter so sticky, it's a minor wonder it didn't stick in his throat. His years of experience with You-Know-Who and his followers have made him nearly expert. 

"You are aware that the seventh year boys have committed a grievous act, behaving in a reprehensible fashion, and the price that _I_ have already paid for their actions has been very... dear." Slinky nods as earnestly as an elf can. "The Headmaster has had a few more demands for allowing them to remain at Hogwarts. After the sacrifices I've already made, you'll understand my unwillingness to have any comparatively... minute problems threaten that agreement." Slinky isn't entirely certain, but nods again slowly. It's force of habit, and he's likely to come around shortly anyway. 

"They will not be permitted to have any other illicit potions. I've dispatched Sunny to deal with that, and I expect you to help him as best you can moving forward. Further, under no circumstances can they be permitted to act in _any_ way that might again threaten another student, another _witch_ , as they previously have."

Slinky hems and haws a little and then speaks, "But if they is only bothering the Muggle-born..." Years of working together have taught the elves to avoid the use of the term 'Mudblood'. 

Severus fixes him with a penetrating stare, but doesn't even raise his voice. "It went rather past 'bothering'." The elf gulps as though castigated, and he continues, "It doesn't matter _whom_ they threaten, the Headmaster won't stand for it, and I won't have my sacrifice be for nothing. It's non-negotiable, Slinky. The Headmaster was clear. So what I need is someone I can trust to see to it that this is done." Slinky puffs with pride and Severus manages not to role his eyes. 

"Your task will be to assure that they're fed Insalacious Saltpeter with every meal." Slinky's eyes tear open wide, so the elf clearly has an understanding of the substance. Because they don't deal in potions, it's easy to forget elves still have a wealth of knowledge about the magical ingredients. Often it rivals a Potion Master's. But as they're far more reliant on the unadulterated _ingredients_ than witches and wizards are, that only makes sense. 

Severus has effectively ordered the elf to throw the breaks on the boys' sex drives. Full stop. 

Honestly, Severus regrets it slightly. There's the _briefest_ twinge as he assigns the elf the task because it may very well affect the boys' performance on the pitch... 

And then he instantly recollects Miss Granger's plight Friday night and _hates_ himself for that base impulse to worry about their _Quidditch_ performance of all things. 

It was an unforgivable lapse. 

(But he just can't _stand_ to see Minerva so supremely smug when the Moggies win. Naturally that will be even worse if he's had to have a hand in making it so.) 

He considers it once more. Crabbe, obviously, must be dosed for sure. There can be no doubt about it. Zabini should be as well. Pity, he was a good Keeper. He won't have Nott dosed, the boy hadn't deserved it, and after a bit of thought, he decides to exclude Goyle as well. But as much as he'd like to, he simply can't justify holding off on Zabini... Not even until after the match. He's not altogether sure what to do about Draco... Deciding to err on the side of caution, he instructs Slinky to ensure that Crabbe, Zabini and Malfoy are given the powder. Regularly. 

"You will add it to their food, and I expect you to see to it that _no one_ learns of this arrangement. No one, I am clear? If this fails to work, the Headmaster has been _very_ definite about this, they _will_ be immediately expelled, and I'll have subjected myself to the bond for... nothing. That _will_ _not_ _happen_. Are we agreed?" Slinky nods again, his eyes wide. "I'm relying on you."

"Yes, Sir, Head, Sir." 

Frankly, he could have one of the other elves see to it; Sunny would be more than happy to have the responsibility, Severus is sure. But it generally helps to draw the chief elf into his schemes. This isn't asking for too much, and yet it seems to be incredibly important. The elf is capable of understanding why it's purportedly necessary and the supposed stakes for his actions. It should prove... adequate. 

And if it doesn't, Severus has precious few qualms about resorting to more... thorough measures. 

"I will leave the Insalacious Saltpeter on my desk for you by lunch; you have my permission to enter and take that jar - and only that jar - at that time. You will also inform me in a timely manner when you require more. And if there are further problems in the House, I expect you and Sunny will _cooperate_ to communicate them. Dismissed."

Slinky Apparates out of the room with the 'pop' so typical of the elves, and Severus pinches the bridge of his nose, gathering himself before returning to the classroom. 

By the time he does, the students are again in their places and apparently hard at work on the homework he'd assigned. 

He doesn't for an instant believe that was the case all along. _Especially_ not when he sees Goyle's relief as he scans the room to ascertain they're all seated.

* * *

  


Gregory rises almost immediately as the Professor walks into the classroom. He's still not altogether sure the man will be pleased to find him in his seat, and he can only imagine the blistering comments that will see him very quickly out of it. He can see himself out, ta. 

"If you'd be so good, Goyle, and take Tinkerbell out there to the Infirmary now..." Severus gestures almost apathetically with one hand towards the door. 

"Yes, Sir," Gregory gulps, but only the Muggle-raised catch the reference. Severus finds it advantageous to bat them a smackerel every now and again that they can exchange for titbits of wizarding culture they don't know. It helps to even the score. He'd been largely Muggle-raised, after all, and can appreciate the handicap they labour under. 

Goyle scutters from the room before him and then stands there staring at Crabbe trying to figure out how he's going to manage this one...

Severus follows deliberately in his typically imposing fashion, and once again all heads in the classroom turn to track his movements. 

"Might I suggest a Mobilicorpus?" 

Gregory is quick to admit he doesn't know how to perform it, and Vince is every bit as quick to whimper, "Not again!" As he'll later explain to Gregory, the experience with Millie and Alberta yesterday had taught him not to offer himself up for learning purposes with that Charm. _Never again_. 

Merlin, he'd barely _survived_.

Not, if he's looking back on it, that _having survived_ seems to have worked out so brilliantly for him just now, but he remains hopeful that's likely to improve. 

Probably. 

"That's all very well, Crabbe, but you can't stay here. And if _standing_ was proving too much for you, I highly doubt you'll make it to the Infirmary under your own steam." The overtly sardonic statement wafts there in the air between them and neither of the boys can object. "I'll perform the Mobilicorpus and Goyle will tow you. Acceptable?" He doesn't wait for a reply and soon Crabbe is floating arse over tip in the corridor. So oddly, now that there's an audience, his bum floats even higher, and rather thoroughly fatigued, his head, arms and legs now all droop towards the floor. Of course, any strength the boy might have had to keep them from flopping had been expended in his attempt to remain upright while Severus went about making his arrangements. 

"Do you think you can manage?" Somehow Gregory feels the tone doesn't invite any answer but the affirmative and a staunch resolution to at least _try_. 

"I'll do my best," he assures the Head, who gives him a look that says it probably won't be enough. 

"Off with you then. That Mobilicorpus won't last forever." The look of panic on both their faces was well worth the appearance of moderate fallibility on his part. "And Goyle, have Madam Pomfrey take a look at your rash while you're there." Severus does _not_ smirk as they leave, watching Goyle trying to figure out how to best pull-push-drag Crabbe to the Infirmary. He's a bit sorry he can't stay to watch. 

He returns to the classroom, all heads again swivelling as one to their work, and he doesn't even need to admonish them to get busy.  
  


The first batch of the seventh year boys' Potions appears on his desk in the classroom not long after, and Severus begins to sort through them. Initially, none prove difficult or particularly unexpected, there's Boil Cure and Pepper-Up. He's interested to note some of later seems to be Miss Davis' variant and some not. It would seem the witch isn't willing to brew for just anyone. Sleekeazy's Hair Potion and Scalp Treatment and Vitamin Potion, Touchstone's Triple T (Torsten and Tomasina must be _so_ pleased), Lowdour deodorant and Cough Potions, Tolipan Blemish Blitzer and Ten-Second Pimple Vanisher. A few liquid pranks, anything else would have been surprising in light of the sources, Dogbreath and Laugh-inducing Potions...

He quickly identifies them and sets them aside. They soon vanish and he assumes Sunny is returning them to wherever he'd found them. 

More disturbingly, he identifies Forgetfulness Potion and Confusing Concoction and has to ask 'why' his students need such things. Presumably they're useful when one finds oneself unable to properly cast a Confundus or a targeted Obliviate. He puts those aside for consideration, but he'll probably be confiscating them. It will alert the boys to the measures he's taking, but then he won't have much choice, ultimately, if they have more of whatever they'd given Miss Granger. He'll need to pocket those anyway. Regardless, it shouldn't come as much of a surprise. 

That presupposes they've given it any thought, however. Hmm. 

If he can finish before lunch, he'll simply keep those. If not... The ones he feels he can't safely or reasonably return to the boys will need to be replaced so they don't notice what he's doing. He doesn't need to make a decision on that quite yet though. Or so he thinks. 

Shortly before the end of class a selection of Potions to rival those in his own medicine chest begins to appear on his desk. The selection is a great deal more varied, more... esoteric than he'd expected, and that's just at first glance. 

This is probably going to take some time.

* * *

  


The seventh year N.E.W.T. Charms class is very nearly an over-subscribed course. With a headcount of twenty-nine, there are more students enrolled here than in any single other class, and if the teacher were anyone but the remarkably even tempered Filius, he or she would have long since complained. 

All but two Gryffindors and two Slytherins are taking Charms, as are all the Ravenclaws save Mandy Brocklehurst, whose love of music demanded she reluctantly pass on her Head of House's class in favour of the music course she takes with Gryffindors Fay and Georgina. On Wednesdays, that's the _Muggle_ Music class, and unsurprisingly there are no Slytherins enroled; Goyle only joins them Mondays for the regular double Music lesson. Normally, Megan Jones sits in Muggle Music with them along with five other Hufflepuffs. She won't be there this morning, and Mandy, Fay, and Georgina will be amongst the first outside of her House to learn she's permanently pulled out of the school. 

There are only four Hufflepuffs in the Charms class - Hannah, Susan, Justin and Ernie - and they can't seem to stop whispering amongst themselves. Despite the Draught of Peace, Hermione is still a little self conscious, or perhaps it's more accurate to describe the response as a purely intellectual one thanks to the Potion. Idly, she can't help wondering if all that whispering is still about her. Salome Perks, Smith, _whatever_ isn't in the class, but then neither is Megan, and Hermione wasn't at breakfast and hadn't had the hint of a chance to hear any of the rumours as to why she's left school. 

Yet. 

The Snakes, too, are behaving oddly. There are five girls in the class, and they're spurning the three boys. Not too noticeably, naturally, they're Slytherins after all, but Hermione can see a difference to yesterday, as she'd had occasion to observe them a little more closely. She has no idea what's going on, and of course no one is likely to tell her. 

On top of the bickering, the _fighting_ between her and Ron - and Harry, too, honestly - the class has a really weird atmosphere, and Hermione is only too happy when it's over.

* * *

  


As the last student leaves the classroom, Severus flicks the door shut and summons Sunny again. 

"Can you tell me where you found this collection of potions?"

"Sir means those potions?" He asks pointing a knobby finger at the pile Severus has set aside. "Potions is in Crabbe's trunk, Master of Potions, Sir. Many, _many_ potions is in his trunk." 

Severus has a sinking feeling as he hears it. 

This is particularly bitter. 

Crabbe has an incredible assortment of Potions, certainly greater quantities of each of them than any one person could ever need, and Severus is forced to acknowledge he's probably dealing in them. It leaves him more than a little uncomfortable, as _he'd_ done much the same as a student in his sixth and seventh years, once he'd been... cut loose and needed to define a niche for himself. He'd spent five years rejecting many of the offers of friendship within his House that would have come at the expense of his relationship with Lily, and then from one day to the next, she'd very publicly cast him aside. 

Whether or not she was right to do so - and in retrospect, he can certainly see some of her points; bloody Nora, he'd seen many of them _at the time_ \- that left him needing to find a place for himself within the House. 

With his talents, his interests? Dealing in potions had been the obvious answer. And quite honestly, he had desperately needed the money. That the brewing had accounted for much of his free time had only helped. It gave him the perfect excuse not to be more like Mulciber or Rosier, not to have to spend more time either _trying_ or _not_ to fit in. _Neither_ were good options at the time. He was able to leave a great many things ambiguous, he'd have _so_ gladly done - or _not_ , depending on the audience - something or another with the others, but he was frightfully sorry, he had a cauldron waiting... 

As they invariably profited from his Draughts, no one ever complained or questioned the excuse. 

Well, not much. 

A clear difference between what he had done and what Crabbe seems to be doing being that he hadn't had the Galleons to purchase the potions and Crabbe hasn't the skills to brew his own. There's a huff of sardonic laughter, at least he _hopes_ Crabbe isn't trying to. That would probably be worse. 

It's odd having to evaluate his own behaviour through the eyes of a staff member. 

Then as now, many of the potions are run of the mill things meant to provide a supply of innocuous potions such as Pimple-Vanisher in a pinch. 

But naturally it doesn't stop there. 

The last even reasonably organised (and isn't it strange to apply that term in _any_ sense to Crabbe) Potions Dealer he knew of was Carmichael from Ravenclaw, who had graduated last year, apparently leaving a void Crabbe has decided to fill. From the assortment of potions now on his desk, Severus is forced to admit, Crabbe might even be a far sight better at this than Carmichael ever was. 

In fact, it was Miss Granger who had rumbled him trying to sell a Mental Enhancement Potion to Potter and Weasley for their O.W.L.s a year and a half ago and turned Carmichael in. That put him within their sights. 

Severus doesn't smirk (much) as he sits there thinking of the irony that she's now married to a one-time Potions pusher herself.  
  


"How far along are you with the search?" Severus asks his elf. 

"Sunny saves the Crabbe's things for last, Sunny does. We is almost finished Master of Potions, Sir."

That's not quite true; the real work is probably just starting. The ones that aren't immediately evident need to be identified after all, but they may be coming to an end of the supply. "Very well. Return these, please and see what else you can find." The elf vanishes almost before he finishes speaking. Eager thing. He and Miss Granger have quite a bit in common. 

His next class enters, but no one finds it the least bit odd that the Professor sits there carefully analysing and apparently grading Potions. All in a day's work. What could be more natural?

Severus works steadily away at it until just before lunch, by which point there are only a small handful he can't identify without testing. That's the point he's forced to get creative. He Summons a number of phials, some agar and dyes and sets about creating a set of fake 'potions' with the same colourings and viscosities as the potions he's retaining, the identified ones he won't be permitting the students to keep and the ones he still hasn't pinpointed. 

He could just take them all without replacement, of course, especially as he rather suspects he won't wish to return the three mystery potions either. But this approach allows him to determine what they are before he makes that judgment. Handling the job this way lends him the appearance of knowing more than he currently does, while guaranteeing there's no risk to the students as he analyses them. It's theatre, pure and simple, but it's a simple tactic that will be helpful moving forward as he has no doubt whatsoever that simply voicing a ban on certain substances isn't likely to actually prove... effective. 

When has it ever. 

Ultimately, the more powerful certain students think he is, the more skilful, the less work he'll have in the end. 

Sunny is so good as to place the fakes where he'd found their doppelgangers, and Severus pockets the originals. It's unlikely anyone will have call to realise they're missing before he's done. He can identify the remainder in his own time, and then have Sunny remove the fakes or replace the originals, as necessary. Setting a jar of Insalacious Saltpeter on his desk for Slinky, he locks and wards his classroom, making the adjustments to permit the elf access, and heads to the Library to take care of his next set of errands.

* * *

  


When class finally ends, Harry grabs Ron and bolts. It's been demonstrably successful before, and it certainly seems like a good idea _now_. Hermione probably wouldn't have cared even if she _hadn't_ taken the Draught. And it's not like they're in Arithmancy with her anyway. 

Ravenclaws Entwhistle and Cornfoot go on ahead to Vector's class with Hannah and Ernie. Strangely, Malfoy and Nott seem eager to leave Greengrass, er, Daphne and Davis behind and dart off, following soon after the others. The girls are giving them the cold shoulder anyway, and Theo... MacDougall and Madam Snape were both in Charms with him, and right now he seems to have a pressing need for some fresh air. At this point Theo is fairly anxious to avoid... almost the entire the universe, really. Certainly all witches, and most _definitely_ any Muggle-borns, and _Muggle-born witches_... Merlin. They're basically an unholy intersection of things he most _desperately_ needs to never encounter, ever again.  
  


What _Hermione_ needs just now is to speak to Professor Flitwick about the attack on fourth year Hufflepuff Newton Kurz last night and she stays behind after class.

Daphne spots her dawdling and stops in the doorway to ask, "Hermione, aren't you coming to Arithmancy?"

"I need to speak to the Professor first, Daphne, but I'll be right along."

Daphne surprises her by volunteering to wait for her, and Tracey slots into place beside her. Personally, she is _certain_ this will end badly, but having encouraged the others to see to it the Professor won't have to act on the Protection Vow, this is actually the best way for them to do so. Well, _probably_. But she can't quite stifle her sigh as she joins Daph, damn her eyes. 

But then again, there aren't any other Gryffindors in Arithmancy, which should help minimise the potential trouble. (It also makes the class decidedly more enjoyable, but that's beside the point.) 

"Professor, do you have a moment?" Hermione asks as she approaches his desk. 

"Of course, Miss... Madam Snape. What would you like, my dear?"

"I wanted to talk to you about the duel that took place last night between several boys from your House and three others."

Hermione tells him a little about the duel. He's aware, of course, having had a wand in the treatment of some of the casualties, but he was less cognisant of the details of the events themselves. 

"Still, eighty points, Madam Snape. That was quite a lot. Was the fighting truly that extreme? Especially, I beg your pardon, but _especially_ as the two individuals to remain in the Infirmary overnight were two of the recipients of just that point loss."

"It shouldn't matter what the total was, Professor, although I can appreciate that it might be vexing for you as it's your House." Filius' expression shows the rebuke sat, and doesn't he just find that fact amusing... Strange little man, the Professor. "But that total is solely dependent on how many participated. The issue _should_ be the twenty points I took from each of them separately for their actions, and _I_ feel that was warranted. 

"In fact, _given_ the total number of boys who participated, if we were to factor that into the equation, it probably should have been _higher_." Technically she _had_ done, to the tune of ten more points a nose, but that distinction won't help her drive her meaning home and she just so happens to neglect to mention it. "To be perfectly frank, I'd have given them detention if I could have. 

" _That's_ what I wanted to speak to you about. If Hunter Hutchinson and Dennis Creevey hadn't come to Kurz' assistance last night, and fought bravely against unfair odds to help him, I shouldn't like to think what would have happened..."

Tracey and Daphne, standing by the door, silently exchange glances at the mention of their younger Housemate. They hadn't expected her to praise him. 

"Here again, Madam Snape, in all fairness, you have to admit the hexes two of my House endured were much worse than what they swished out. I brought Mr. Kurz himself back to his House last night, he was quite recovered, and I happen to know neither Mr. Hutchinson nor Mr. Creevey were in the Infirmary at that time. By contrast, Mr. Inglebee is _still_ in Poppy's care."

"This wasn't some organised duel, Professor. This was a _fight_ , and a dirty one. By the time Hunter and Dennis found Kurz, he was already effectively out of commission. Goodness knows, that wasn't an _accomplishment_ ; it should have been easy enough to achieve when he was so badly outnumbered. And that left those two boys who came to his aid also outnumbered by a factor of two to one. You can't expect them to play nicely under those conditions. You can't even expect any great accuracy from them, which I gather was part of the problem with Dennis' hex, wasn't it?" Filius finds himself having to stifle a smile. Bright witch, Madam Snape. And every bit as much a formidable opponent in a debate as in a duel. 

Except then the mood seems to shift, and Filius is left regretting that he hadn't picked up on it sooner. 

"Your boys attacked Newton Kurz _four to one_ in a dark hallway at a time and place where he was lucky that anyone saw, and luckier yet that those who did weren't the sort to turn away. It was a disgraceful act of extreme cowardice from your students, and only luck kept it from ending any worse for Kurz..." Hermione's hair has begun crackling, she may be beginning to tap into her inner Madam Pince, and she's clearly agitated by what happened. Truth be told, she'd be much more so without the Peace in her, but Filius isn't particularly strict and not given to harsh punishments, and he most _certainly_ isn't used to the Prefects lecturing him on his reasonably permissive tendencies. He takes her response for a marked one. Ron would be very happy to tell him otherwise. Merlin, she hasn't even set a flock of angry birds onto him yet. He really hasn't got anything to complain about. 

Ruefully, it now occurs to Filius that he can imagine why these circumstances might be so upsetting for the witch. "I can see where you might find that especially worrisome..." He begins, and he means well, he really does. Hermione unfortunately hears only half the message and _none_ of the intent and finds it frankly _insulting_. 

" _Anyone_ should find that especially worrisome."

"No, of course, Madam Snape." His little hands shoot up in surrender. "I didn't mean to suggest otherwise." He looks to the two girls standing by the door and considers how to phrase this circumspectly. "I assure you, my dear, I most definitely didn't mean to suggest it wouldn't be. You're right, obviously, that behaviour was unacceptable. The boys will be serving detention in addition to the point loss you assigned, I guarantee you. It's more than right. I merely meant..." 

He trails off as it won't do her any good to say what he meant with others listening. It _might_ not even do all that much good to say what he was thinking even if they were in private. He isn't at all sure how she's holding things together. She's a nice young woman and an excellent student, and he hates to think what she's had to endure these past few days. 

Instead he tries to express that. 

"You _are_ doing alright? The Headmaster's solution... You're coming to rights?" 

Hermione blushes just as furiously as the Draught will allow, but when she answers, her voice is steady enough. "It's a little late for second thoughts." 

"Of course, of course, my dear. I wasn't trying to suggest... But that doesn't mean..." He stops, inhales and tries again. "If you should have any problems, please know my door is open to you. I know... Well, he can be difficult." 

"You don't think the _Professor_ is the problem?" Her indignation is clear. 

Almost as if prearranged, the Slytherin witches withdraw quietly just out of sight. It doesn't do much to stop them hearing the conversation, though. That's probably not a coincidence. 

"No, no, of course not...."

"Because he most certainly _isn't_." She crosses her arms and stands there tapping a foot, and probably wouldn't be happy to hear she bears a remarkable resemblance to Molly Weasley just at the moment. 

"I didn't mean to suggest that either. I'm very sorry my dear, I don't seem to have broached that well at all. I simply meant if you find yourself wanting to speak with someone, you may come to me any time. That's _all_ I was trying to say."

She'll accept the olive branch before things get any worse. Goodness knows, she's already hexed one staff member this week. "Thank you, Sir. I appreciate the offer," she replies as she turns to leave. It's a bit grudging and doesn't sound nearly as appreciative as she'll be later when she has time to consider it, but the context leaves her currently unable to see the generous offer in a more kind light. 

Filius, fortunately, isn't offended. He really does have a sweet disposition, and he knows his approach had been... subpar. Difficult situation the witch finds herself in, difficult times, yes, very difficult for them all. 

He resolves to do better next time.  
  


Daphne and Tracey fall in wordlessly beside Hermione as she leaves the room and they walk to Arithmancy in silence. It's unusual, but even more oddly not uncomfortable. Each of the young women has a number of thoughts to pursue.

* * *

  


Mandy Brocklehurst is the only student in their Arithmancy class who isn't also taking Charms. As the Ravenclaw is just coming from her Muggle Music class, from which Megan Jones had been so conspicuously absent, she's the first one to join their number beyond the two Hufflepuffs present to have heard any of the news about their Muggle-born classmate. She loses no time in whispering the latest goss to fellow Ravenclaws Kevin Entwhistle and Steven Cornfoot as she hops into her seat. 

The whispering continues as the boys, both more practical and sceptical than Mandy, turn to Hannah Abbott and Ernie Macmillan demanding confirmation. Hannah acknowledges Mandy frankly seems to know _more_ than they do, although they're able to confirm Megan's left the school, and bolstered by that Mandy fills all four of them in about Megan's move to _Canada_ , of all places. 

The reverent tones in which _that's_ whispered could leave one wondering just what they teach the students about other countries at the school. (Bugger all.)

Much speculation ensues, some of it about the plural form of 'moose', oddly enough. (Although it makes perfect sense within the conversation at the time.) They're nearly in agreement that it isn't 'meese' or 'mooses', and 'mice' was just a thoroughly _stupid_ idea, _thank you, Steven_. Kevin has no idea _what_ they're on about until Ernie clarifies 'elk'. 

They could have just said so in the first place.  
  


Hermione tries not to take the whispering personally and wonders if she's growing paranoid. 

Fortunately, she doesn't care too much either way just now. 

Tossers.

The Slytherins continue to have a clear division of the sexes, or clear if one watches properly. Most don't. 

But then Hermione doesn't seem to have anything better to do...  
  


Professor Vector calls the classroom to order, about to begin her Double Arithmancy lesson. 

"Good to see you back, Mr. Macmillan," she addresses the Head Boy. Ernie blushes when he thinks about why he'd missed the last class. Shameful, his behaviour was, just shameful. 

"Thank you, Professor," he manages, although general disinterest ensures no one but Hannah really registers his discomfort, but then that's part of what makes them friends. 

"Everything back in working order, I trust?" As if he'd answer that if it _weren't_. Teachers ask the _oddest_ things. 

But Ernie's had a chance to think about and regret his behaviour from yesterday, the actions, worse - the _words_ \- that had led to his hexing. And honestly Nott looks like a ball of nerves today. With Ernie's ego, it wasn't much of a leap to decide that reaction was due to having to face _him_. 

"Oh, quite," he answers Professor Vector. Looking at Nott, he says, "It's all good. Everything is quite alright."  
  


And it is for a while. At least until lunch.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I started posting this thing a year ago, and I wanted to just take a moment to thank everyone for making the past year such a lovely experience. I'm still sort of thrown that so many people are reading it. Thanks once again to everyone who has commented (no, wait, _almost_ everyone... right. lol), kudoed, bookmarked or just plain read the wicked long thing. You guys rule. ❤️ 
> 
> Also, 500k words in a year. Oof. ( _'Do you use your hands a lot?'_ they asked. ;-))


	98. 11 12k Wednesday - Lunch at the Castle 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Severus (HoS, Potions), Hermione 7G (Prefect, Supreme Swot)**
> 
> **Staff:**  
>  Professor Filius Flitwick (HoR, Charms), Professor Sybill Trelawney (Divination; Scarves, Tealeaves, Patchouli, oh my!), Professor Sarah Sapworthy (Xylomancy, Twigs!), Professor Barrymore Beckford (Ghoul Studies, positively _ancient_ ), Irma Pince (Librarian), Hagrid (Care of Magical Creatures, Keeper of not-so-wee Beasties), Professor Septima Vector (Arithmancy, but that hardly counts, or was that the students?), Professor Pomona Sprout (HoH, Herbology)
> 
> **Slytherins:**  
>  Draco 7S (Prefect, Team Captain, Seeker, Swot), Theo Nott 7S (Swottiest, Nervous Wreck), Blaise Zabini 7S (Keeper (but only in the Quidditch sense...)), Daphne Greengrass 7S (Sparkly! Fwoopers!), Tracey Davis 7S (Swottier), Pansy Parkinson 7S (Prefect), Torsten Touchstone 6S (sleepyhead, heir to the Touchstone fortune), Ella Wilkins 6S (Prefect), Flora Carrow 6S (friendly twin), Tomasina Touchstone 5S (Prefect, Potions savvy heiress), Hunter Hutchinson 4S (Imp, Take-Out Delivery Boy)
> 
> **Gryffindors:**  
>  Harry 7G (Team Captain, Seeker, the Boy-Who-Lived-to-Annoy-Severus), Ron Weasley 7G (Prefect, Keeper (but also only in the Quidditch sense), the Boy-Who-Exists-to-Annoy-Hermione), Lavender 'Lav' Brown 7G (blonde!), Parvati Patil 7G, Fay Dunbar 7G (Reserve Chaser), Georgina Smith 7G ('Fay's ginger friend'), Dhanesh Devi 6G (bonded to Kiera 6G, sadly tailless), Kiera Kilkenny Devi 6G (bonded to Dhanesh 6G), Kevin 'Kev' Peterson 5G (in a class of his own)
> 
> **Ravenclaws:**  
>  Robert Knox 4R (eagle with principles), Stewart Ackerly 4R (Beater), David Chang 4R (Cho's cousin)
> 
> **Others:**  
>  The Bloody Baron (Slytherin House Ghost), Sunny (the Snapes' house elf), Slinky (the Slytherin House's chief house elf), House of Slytherin elves, Hogwarts' Kitchen Elves
> 
> **Mentioned briefly:** **Staff:** Albus Dumbledore (dying Headmaster, but ffs, not nearly fast enough...) **Slytherins:** Gregory Goyle 7S (Beater), Vincent 'Vince' Crabbe 7S (Beater, Winged ex-Couch still-Potato), Millicent 'Millie' Bulstrode (Reserve Beater, yes, _that_.), Harper Hutchinson 6S (Prefect, Chaser), Aaron Avery 6S (Reserve Chaser), Sheldon Shafiq 6S (Reserve Beater, and charm on legs), Hestia Carrow 6S (Chaser, sporty twin), Valerie 'Val' Vaisey 6S (Chaser), Róisín Rosier 6S, Wilfred Wilkes 4S **Gryffindors:** Fred and George Weasley **Ravenclaws:** Morag MacDougal 7R (lippy Muggle-born with _that_ lippy) **Hufflepuffs:** Megan Jones 7H (the Muggle-born who quite sensibly left), Leanne Moon 7H (Megan's friend), Salome Smith 7H (née Perks, bonded to Zacharias Smith 6H), Hannah Abbott 7H (Prefect), Newton Kurz 4H (Potions Disaster, Hunter's and Dennis' friend) **Others:** Portrait Phineas Nigellus Black (HoS, One-time Headmaster), Flighty (Filius' personal elf)

**Previously: **  
Severus gave Slinky permission to enter his office to get the Insalacious Saltpeter to dose the boys. 097

At lunch Tuesday 072, Sybill was rather rude towards Sarah until Barrymore straightened her out. She made up for it by giving Sarah the tip about Draco receiving three of those Slytherin mail snakes that she noticed in 069, and the two witches together came up with a 'Prophecy' related to them for Sarah to deliver to her N.E.W.T. Xylomancy class that afternoon. 072

Speaking with Hermione last night, Severus learnt how her Loyalty Vow doesn't seem to stop her - at all - from doing as she pleases. He finds that... distressing. 077

Theo discovered the letter Draco had received from his mother detailing what Professor Snape had reported to the inner circle as to the reasons for his bonding - apparently the seventh years had kidnapped a Muggle-born student and fed her a Lust Potion. Theo fears the worst and is having a breakdown. Daphne, trying to help, secretly used a Sleeping Charm on him. 080 When Theo can't be roused Wednesday morning, she worries it's related to her spell 093, and reports herself to Severus. 095

The Slytherin girls nominate Tracey and Flora to brew them some Pain Relieving Potion, and Ella and Daphne to research bonds. The male and female sixth year Chasers independently of one another decide to train with the reserve players during lunch. 083

Albus conned Hermione into taking another Oath, this time not to speak of the incident with the Marauders and Severus under the Whomping Willow their fifth year in exchange for details. Phineas Nigellus Black explained to her that it wasn't the... best move she could have made. For his standards, he was downright polite about it. Well, almost. 079

Blaise's mother threatened to halve his allowance. 094

As one of the initial 'death by one hundred paper cuts' measures Severus took against the boys, he has Sunny stealing some of their homework at night which he keeps destroying.

A house-elf can only be freed when their _master_ presents them with clothes. Hermione's campaign to free the Hogwarts elves with the self-knitted items of clothing was always doomed to fail (and alienate). (Canon.)

* * *

* * *

  


Shortly before the midday meal is to begin, while the students - and faculty, for that matter - are still flooding the hallways of the school, Slinky appears before the Head of House's office. 

To say he 'appears' isn't _entirely_ accurate, as he's behind a near impenetrable house elf Disillusionment, and the fact they are _never_ seen unless they _choose_ to be really should give certain parties pause to think. There's not a witch or wizard alive who can cast the Charm remotely as well. Somehow that detail goes predominantly unnoticed. 

Much like the elves, in fact. 

He stands there in the school's customary tea towel uniform for the house elves, the Hogwarts' crest on his chest encircled by embroidered silver and green snakes, signifying he's an elf assigned to the noble House of Slytherin and not one of those other duffers. The snakes are larger than those of the other Slytherin elves, that and the additional flourish about them is the emblem of his office as the chief elf of the House, not that the humans ever seem to notice. The fact that _that_ might largely be due to his almost never being _visible_ to them doesn't seem to occur to him. But then, Slinky often prefers being bitter to thinking things through. 

Which isn't to say he isn't given to thinking. 

Right now, as it happens, he's thinking rather a lot. 

Experimentation has shown Slinky that he has access to the other Houses, he can enter almost any classroom or Professor's office after hours, and even most of their private rooms. The majority of staff don't seem to have warded their areas against elves. He likes to think he's a very competent elf with strong magic, but he isn't (quite) vain enough to assume that's the case without confirmation. Subtle questioning of the unassigned elves over the decades has revealed that none of the rest seem to have managed to gain entry where he can't, but also that most haven't thought to try. 

Slinky can't begin to explain why they _wouldn't_ , dull creatures, but has come to think these are some of his distinguishing characteristics that helped him to become Slytherin's chief elf. 

It's entirely possible decades in that position have had their effect on the elf as well. 

He assumes there could be exceptions for the elves assigned to specific Houses, and as such has never asked the Ravenclaw elves if _they_ have access to the Flitwick's classroom. He has, however... _borrowed_ one of the uniforms from Flighty, the Flitwick's personal elf - briefly, just to try it - and determined both that his towel didn't permit Slinky to enter the Charms classroom after the wards were set and that he was still capable of entering the dungeons. The answer, he deduced, does not lie in what they wear. 

He likes to consider all possibilities.

In all the years he's served, he's never seen one of the other Houses' elves or the general staff within the Slytherin dungeons, which made him wonder. Here, too, a bit of shrewd asking about that culminated in encouraging a few select others to test it revealed that _they_ can't seem to pass through the House's wards. (And once again, they were largely baffled that he should expect them to wish to do so.) That magic apparently dates back to the Founder. Salazar Slytherin had been a cautious man, and tended to give things a great deal of thought. 

At the moment, Slinky is doing his best to emulate him. 

He stands there invisible in front of the Head's office door and considers what he should try first. This is one of the rooms he normally can't access. Professor Snape, however, has commanded him to fetch something from this room, and he doesn't doubt the wards will have been changed to permit him to do so. Not altogether certain if that access will be limited to a single entry, he presses against the wards and senses a difference. He's certain that he could get further than usual, but doesn't yet cross them.

He withdraws and contemplates if he can bring something foreign with him. Best to choose something innocuous, something he could explain away if he must... He Summons a pot of tea from the kitchens and tries again, but the wards resist. He deliberates again. He thinks some manner of vestments might work, as he was able to push into the warded area despite his towel. Sadly he hasn't the ability to Transfigure the tea and is _highly_ disinclined to seek any human's assistance in the matter. 

That's a problem...

Unable to discover a different solution and conscious that the time he has to complete his errand is running out, he Banishes the tea, and Apparates into the Head's office. 

He isn't certain what he wants to do with his knowledge, but he _is_ certain it's good to have. 

The jar of Insalacious Saltpeter is waiting for him on the Professor's desk as promised. Slinky takes it in arm, worried that if any additional trials prove successful he'd better have it with him in case he can't return. A second attempt to Summon the teapot from the kitchens fails, as he had expected, but it's best to be thorough in these things. 

He begins searching for something insignificant, likely not to be missed, and discovers the nib of a broken quill discarded beside the bin. This is _especially_ promising as the ownership of a discarded object changes. If he can't Disapparate with this, then it rather thoroughly settles the matter. He picks it up and makes an attempt, and once more, the wards resist him. He returns the bit of rubbish to its original location and determines to wait to see how long he'd be permitted to stay, as the Professor hadn't specified the length of the visit. He hasn't long before he must leave to complete his chore anyhow, and it's certainly worth the few minutes more to test it.

He's a conscientious elf, now isn't he?

He has time for one final test before he goes, and tears off a bit of his tea towel which he hides with the nib behind the bin. If the quill tip had gone unnoticed, so too should the scrap of cloth, to his way of thinking. 

He doesn't even have to wait another two minutes before there's a constriction that forms, pressing against him. Apparently the time for his access was limited by the wards if not the Professor's commands. He adds that bit of information to his growing collection. The pressure grows more and more, and unwilling to risk a forcible removal, he accepts he's being ejected and should leave on his own. 

He begins to Disapparate, terribly pleased that he _can_ despite having left something behind. That glee lasts seconds at best. Before he's able to completely Disapparate, he is _horrified_ to see the bit of cloth disappear, Banished - _somewhere_ \- even as he leaves.  
  


He reappears outside the office only a moment later, still clutching the jar of Saltpeter, frantically searching for the scrap of towel in the corridor. 

He can't find it anywhere. 

He Summons it, and it fails to come, the uniform belonging to the _school_ , after all, and the discarded scrap most certainly _not_ belonging to him. 

And now he begins to panic in earnest. If the Head had it Banished to a specific location, he'll know when he sees it just what Slinky has attempted.  
  


That can't _possibly_ be good. 

In something of a frenzy, he Apparates to the kitchens to ask the other elves for help, his plan to test if he could enter the office again forgotten completely.  
  


It wouldn't have worked anyway.

* * *

  


Sarah Sapworthy, the generally cheery Professor of Xylomancy, swings by Sybill's classroom to inform her she's taking her colleague with her to lunch. Sybill's expression suggests she begs to differ, but she isn't given the chance. 

"We're more likely to hear something _there_ than you are hiding..."

"I'm not hiding," Sybill interjects, but Sarah just ignores her, waving a hand for her to be quiet. 

"... _hiding_ up here. And I'm lovely company," Sarah beams and Sybill weakens. Just a little. "Besides, I've cast the twigs," Sarah insists and now Sybill winces.

"Sorry about that," she mutters. She knows she hadn't been kind yesterday at lunch. 

Sarah smiles, unperturbed, "Ah, but the twigs said you'll enjoy my company, so it's pretty much settled." 

A little hesitantly, the Divinations Professor agrees, and Sarah leads her from her classroom. "And clearly my _twigs_ are preferable to your _cups_ , or do you mean to tell me your Tasseography failed to warn you of my arrival?"

Sybill sputters a bit, but again isn't provided with an opportunity to answer. 

"Never mind, my dear, there are things a foot. You'll never believe what I learnt in class today..."

"Aren't _you_ the one supposed to be teaching it?" Sybill snarks, digging up a spot of courage (surprisingly not of Dutch origin for once) to tease the witch.

"Hush. I'm certain we'll learn more in the Great Hall. Do you have a good Charm for listening in, or just for tuning out?" And happily chatting (well, Sarah more so than Sybill, but she's thawing), the women make their way to the Great Hall together.

* * *

  


Severus swoops into the Library, a man on a mission. A high priority mission. The realisation just how utterly... _fucked_ \- there's no use sugarcoating the situation - Miss Granger's Loyalty Vow is needs addressing, and how. 

He strides into the Restricted Section and sets about gathering any book that seems remotely useful on the topic of structuring Vows. He doesn't give a damn about bonds - well... not for _these_ purposes - and leaves those texts untouched, to the extent they don't overlap with his present interests at any rate. He makes quick work of amassing a ridiculous pile of books better suited to Miss Granger than himself, wonders when on earth he'll find the time to skim them all, and turns to head for Irma's checkout desk. 

And then he stops, hesitates for a moment, and returns to the Restricted Section once more. He deposits his somewhat unwieldy stack on a nearby table and flipping through the indices of several tomes is soon able to add three books that reference the Somnolence Charm to his haul. 

Therein might lie the answer to Miss Granger's sleep issues. 

Which interest him _only_ insofar as those very same issues seem to keep him from sleeping as well. 

_Obviously_.

And of course, he'd promised Miss Greengrass to let her know if what she'd done to Nott had been harmful. He likes to keep his promises when he can. 

Four of the books on Vows happen to also address the topic of bonds. It had been unavoidable, the intersection quite natural, and certainly not a deliberate selection on his part. These also happened to be close to the top of the heap. As Irma stamps the books, checking him out, her face sours slightly at the sight of those books, and Severus - preternaturally curious and ever vigilant - dips, oh so lightly, into her thoughts. 

Terrible habit, that. Just like listening at doors. 

It would seem Irma has some... _choice_ thoughts about his apparent interest in the topic _after_ his bonding. 

Hmm. 

Well.

It probably serves Severus right for his casual Legilimency. He was better off not knowing. She hadn't _voiced_ them after all... 

What's worse, so much so, he was inclined to _agree_ with the witch. 

While it's not quite as bad as finding himself in agreement with _Potter_ , it's definitely not something that occurs all too often. 

Fortunately, Severus is not superstitious. 

He waits until he's exited the library, Irma is so easily enraged when it comes to her pergament darlings, performs an Incarcerous to bind the pile together and then shrinks the lot to a more manageable size before stashing them in his extended pocket and heading to lunch.

* * *

  


Daphne and Tracey accompany Hermione once again as she leaves Arithmancy, and the three witches start walking towards the Great Hall together for lunch. As they draw closer, Hermione begins to get antsy, because it occurs to her that she doesn't know how to inconspicuously absent herself beforehand. She hadn't really thought this one through - it's becoming a thing; she blames the stress - and she isn't great at spur of the moment excuses. Frankly, she tends to hold anyone who believes them for a prize idiot. The problem here, naturally, is once they get to the Great Hall, _she'll_ be stuck sitting at the _Gryffindor_ table, and there's _no way_ she's subjecting herself to that. 

Draught of Peace or not. 

Finally as they're almost at the doors, Hermione comes up with a belated, "I need to run a few errands first. But I'll see both of you in Herbology?" It's weak tea. It has an odd ring to it, somehow not wholly convincing as she probably should have turned off earlier for almost any errand she could conceivably wish to run. 

Well, unless she's headed back to quarters... 

Maybe she'll pretend that's what she means to do.

She resolves to prepare better for these sorts of things in the future. She's just not used to needing excuses like this. 

Daphne quickly agrees, 'Sure, see you later, Hermione,' but Tracey has some brewing to do with Flora, and - steeling her resolve - offers, 'I'm headed to the dungeons, Madam Snape, if you're going my way?' rather putting a spoke in Hermione's wheel. 

Daphne beams at Tracey over Hermione's shoulder, so _proud_ of her friend for making the effort. Tracey has to fight not to roll her eyes. Daph means well, but Nimue, she's about as subtle as a Hufflepuff. 

Really all Hermione wants is just not to be in the Great Hall. But returning to chambers runs the risk of encountering the Professor, and she shouldn't like to explain to him why she's being avoidant, and so she obfuscates, "No, I need to stop by the library." Which she _does_ , just not necessarily _now_. 

She wonders if the Professor is beginning to rub off on her. 

"But thanks for offering, Davis." 

Tracey inclines her head slightly, it's hardly a nod. "Sure," she answers, still not sure that she is. It sounds good anyway. 

Thinking about it, Hermione concludes a trip to the library seems like an _excellent_ idea, really. She's eager to test if she can still even enter the facility. There was always a risk after yesterday's... scene that she was banned. 

She tries not to think about that. No sense imaging the worst, she doesn't want to jinx things. As a _Prefect_ , she'd probably have to take House points. (And then she thinks about her House and wonders if that would be a _bad_ thing...)

They part ways, Daphne entering the Great Hall, Tracey leaving for the dungeons, and Hermione, now suddenly at sixes and sevens, elects to head for the alcove she'd used yesterday with Luna. Mindful of her promise to the Ravenclaw not to skip meals, she calls for Sunny who appears immediately, and asks him if he would mind bringing her something to eat. 

"Whatever they're having in the Great Hall would be lovely. Please don't go to any bother."

But for once the elf doesn't seem happy to just pop off and do her bidding, which - for all she doesn't appreciate the concept of their indentured servitude - she'd _still_ have preferred. 

No. No, instead he flies into quite a tizzy and gives her a piece of his elven mind. 

"Mistress is doing dishes!

"Mistress is making bed! 

"Mistress is cleaning clothes!" 

Or possibly several pieces.

"Mistress has no use for Sunny!"

Well. 

Kreacher had often been intractable, she'd grown used to that. This is something else altogether and she isn't certain where to start. 

So as a matter of personal preference, she goes with logic. 

_Logically_. 

It is _shocking_ how few individuals that actually convinces. 

"Of course I have use for you," she tries to console the outraged little elf. "I _did_ just ask you to bring me something to eat, didn't I?"

Naturally it would have been far too simple had that worked. 

"Mistress no is wanting Sunny's help, Mistress no is _getting_ Sunny's help." Much wailing and gnashing of teeth ensues, or at least it _seems_ that way to Hermione, and before she knows it, she's making all kinds of concessions, if only he'll _stop_. 

Which apparently was all it took. 

Smiling, he pops out of sight to fetch her something to eat and Hermione's left wondering what hit her. (The answer to that is rarely actually 'the Knight Bus', it just feels like it.)

When the Bloody Baron fades into sight beside her, she's no longer surprised. She's half expecting a lecture. 

He doesn't disappoint. 

"Had you... _intended_ to agree to the elf's demands?" Comes the whisper. She could swear it sounds reproachful. Absently she's left wondering if it still counts as a lecture if it's murmured. 

Well, no, she hadn't. But clearly he _knows_ that. She doesn't answer, apparently having neither the ability to lie well nor the energy left to try. 

"Madam, you mustn't feel you need to rush into things. Don't concede to demands unless you agree with them or are receiving something for them in exchange. Preferably both."

Technically, she _is_ receiving something for this, thank you very much. It begins with lunch, and then goes on to include all _manner_ of elven services she didn't actually want. So, _yes_ , she is getting something...

"Something you _want_ ," the Baron amends, which is when she realises she's been ranting out loud. 

That's not embarrassing in the least. 

Well, she's agreed not to do the dishes anymore. There are worse fates. And she won't be making her bed, either. And she definitely won't be cleaning her clothes on her own. Possibly she agreed to let the elf cook, although she hadn't had any plans to the contrary. 

Actually, she'll forget about not making her bed, accidentally do so and then have to undo it. But she _will_ remember not to clean her clothes. _Oddly_ , when she gets dressed tomorrow morning, she'll discover that her elf laundered robes have a nice hint of lavender scent about them. Lavender and something else... She won't place it, it will be too subtle, but it will be a touch of beebalm. She also won't notice because the change will be gradual, but that scent becomes a little stronger each day. Something will seem vaguely familiar about it, but she won't identify it for a while yet. 

And then it will hit her: she smells more and more like the blanket Madam Pomfrey had given them. 

She just can't imagine _why_...  
  


A plate of food appears between her and the Baron bearing an absolutely scrumptious beef butty the like of which she's never seen in the Great Hall. Apparently acquiescing to the elf's demands is well rewarded. Her mouth begins to water just from the sight and smell of the thing. 

A little tentatively, she asks the ghost if he'd mind if she ate while he watches.

"Mind?" He finds the witch exceedingly confusing. "Why should I mind, Madam?"

"Well, because..." Because he can't _eat_ , obviously, and probably hasn't done for about a millennium, and has to sit, hover, float there watching, she imagines, but now has to wonder if pointing that out doesn't just make it worse. 

She tries again from a different approach. "Nearly Headless Nick tends not to appreciate it." 

But the Baron simply blinks. When she doesn't continue he feels pressed to explain, "I am not he." 

Well, _obviously_. And she's left wondering how stupid he thinks she is. She's forced to soldier on to rectify that. "I wasn't certain if that was specific to him, or a preference of ghosts in general."

The Baron lets out a sound like a creaky door, desperately in need of oiling, and she realises he's... _laughing_. Which seems like it should be a first. 

"By all means, Madam, don't let my presence keep you from your meal. Sir Nicholas can be..."

"Tetchy?"

"Indeed." He bobs his head, and she could swear he's smirking. 

Hermione takes a bite, and Holy Cricket, the thing is _phenomenal_. A fresh barm cake instead of bread, the meat is brilliantly spiced and perfectly done, and some homemade horseradish compliments it to a T.

She swallows and looks about, and a glass of milk appears next to her plate. She didn't even have to ask for it. _So_ important for dental health, milk, and not that pumpkin stuff for once. Mercy is she pleased. 

She tries not to think that the Professor could probably learn a thing or two about positive reinforcement from the elf and fails, and then feels guilty, of course, because it's not as though Sunny has a cover to maintain as a spy...

The Baron patiently waits for her to make inroads into her lunch, and she eventually addresses his earlier concerns, "You're not the first person to tell me I need to be more careful when agreeing to people's, er, others' demands. I heard pretty much the same thing from Headmaster Black last night in Professor Dumbledore's office. I'll make an effort not to forget it." She takes another bite and hums happily, "Although this time it seems to be paying off at least."

"May I ask how it went yesterday evening?" He has an idea having seen her after the exchange. The question serves two purposes, he's seeking details and testing her willingness to confide in him. He has no expectations as to what extent she _should_ , he simply finds it... expedient to gauge where they stand. 

"Poorly. _Very_ poorly as Headmaster Black was keen to point out." Hermione's face pinches and then clouds at the recollection of how easily Professor Dumbledore had outmanoeuvred her and her shoulders sag some. "You wouldn't have been pleased with my performance," she tells the ghost wryly. She can own her failures. It's how she learns to do better. 

Well, unless faced with a caterwauling house elf apparently...

The Baron nods to himself. Yes, Phineas was likely to be difficult confronted with a _Muggle-born_ as the Head's bondmate. He can see it all too clearly. He imagines the portrait won't have been... kind. 

"The Headmaster was... problematic?"

Her lips purse at the thought again. She's not fond of failure, and it's clear: she'd failed yesterday. "That's putting it mildly." Hermione's emotions are easy to read; depending on one's inclination, it's either her strength or her weakness. Either way, her displeasure is clear. 

Unfortunately what's less clear is _which_ Headmaster each of them mean.  
  


The Baron comes away from the conversation with the sense that he needs to have a word with Phineas. A _stern_ one. 

And he will. 

Soon.

* * *

  


As the students are filing into the Great Hall for lunch, Filius calls for Mr. Knox to come see him. He's one of his fourth years, and the Head of Ravenclaw has reason to believe the _only one_ of the boys _not_ to have been involved in the duel the other night. The two in the Infirmary, Misters Ackerly and Inglebee, had quite clearly taken part. Of the remaining three, Mr. Knox is the most improbable suspect of the bunch. Filius finds the notion that _he'd_ waylay a lone boy like that inconceivable. 

Filius is so polite as to walk over to the side of the table to speak to the lad. He hates putting the children on display in front of the whole Hall like that, and Mr. Knox most certainly isn't in any trouble. There's no need to embarrass the boy further.

Robert approaches the High Table without hesitation, _that_ doesn't come until Professor Flitwick asks him about last night's duel, in which several of his House had apparently ganged up on a solitary Hufflepuff. _Now_ Robert risks a nervous glance over his shoulder to spot the other fourth years eyeing him warily, and sighs in resignation. He's not in a good position here. 

Cautiously, he replies, "I wasn't part of it, Sir." Filius doesn't say anything, but eyes him kindly for a moment and then the boy continues, feeling the need to distance himself from their craven actions. " _I_ would never do such a thing." 

"I had thought as much, Mr. Knox, but I'm pleased to hear it. That takes character." And without naming names, but by admitting he _hadn't_ participated, he's told Filius everything he needs to know. "Thank you, my boy. 

"I don't suppose you have any idea what it was about?" 

Robert shifts uncomfortably, but he hasn't been asked to point any fingers. This he can probably answer without violating their House's unspoken code of conduct. "Potions incident. Kurz made a dog's dinner of our assignments Monday."

"Very well, my boy. I appreciate your forthcomingness." Robert isn't sure he _had been_ so very, and he's left both feeling he hasn't gone far enough and somehow too far. It's not easy being a boy his age. But he does his best and that's better than most. 

Filius is inclined to think he'd make a better Prefect than Mr. Chang, which would come as a surprise to a great many people next year. A student's marks aren't everything. Moral fibre is grossly undervalued. 

The little Charmsmaster sends the lad back to his table where Stewart and David instantly demand to know what Flitwick had wanted from him. 

It helps that he's honestly able to say he hadn't volunteered a single name.

* * *

  


Barrymore Beckford is once again being interviewed by the Ancient Studies Professor who somehow just can't seem to bring himself to ask him precisely how old he is. Apparently the (much) younger man takes it for frightfully rude. Instead, by means of a series of circuitous questions, he's trying to narrow it down, but Barrymore has recognised what he's doing and is having a spot of fun with misleading answers. 

For example, he tells the story of how his Muggle-born students now say he resembles Einstein, but back in the day used to say he looked like Mark Twain. 

The man racks his brain, Barrymore quite likes the pinch of his face as he concentrates, but eventually remembers his own Muggle Studies courses well enough to have a general idea what time period that might reflect. 

Now had Barrymore gone on to say that as a _younger_ wizard, they used to compare him to Edgar Allen Poe (apparently yet _another_ handsome devil), it might have given the man a more accurate idea as to just _when_ he was a younger wizard, and he might be thinking earlier 19th century as opposed to latter. Of course, had he told the man his Muggle father was mayor of London - _in the 1760s_ \- that would almost _certainly_ have done the job. But he's deriving too much enjoyment out of watching the man think. 

There aren't but so many sports left to wizards well over two hundred years of age.  
  


When Sybill again takes the seat next to him, he smiles at her welcomingly and nods a greeting towards Sarah, who has stopped to speak to Pomona about Miss Jones. "Seeing things more clearly today?" He asks the Divination Professor, his eyes twinkling. 

"If the rabble don't cloud my inner eye..." she replies, gesturing to the students. 

"Speaking on behalf of the rabble, I'm glad you decided to join us," he smiles kindly. 

Sybill suspects the rabble disagree, but the sentiment is nice. "Ah. Well. Sarah performed a spot of Xylomancy, and the results were favourable. So here I am." 

"Twigs?" He enquires with a gleam of mischief in his eye. 

"Hmm. Perhaps my words yesterday weren't well considered." 

"I dare say Sarah won't hold them against you." 

"No, she seems very... forgiving that way." 

"It might be worth making a bit of an effort to not offend her quite so much moving forward," he suggests.

"I was considering it," she admits a mite grudgingly. 

"Capital! I'm extremely glad to hear it, my dear girl. Lovely smile on that woman. It would be a shame not to see it more often."

"Hmm," Sybill allows, not revealing much, keeping her tarot cards as ever close to her bead-covered breast. "I'll take that under advisement."

"Well, now _that's_ a relief." His eyes are twinkling again, but it really is difficult to take his teasing in anything but a playful light. 

"Hullo, Barrymore," Sarah chirps, sliding into the seat next to Sybill. 

"Sarah, my dear, you're looking just lovely today. Something seems to be agreeing with you." He takes her blush for agreement as to that agreement, although she's quick to object and fill him in on the sad news about Miss Jones. 

They aren't the only ones discussing it.

* * *

  


At the Gryffindor table, Fay and Georgina, who take Muggle Music with Megan Jones, report to their friends that the Muggle-born has left the school. _Midterm_. There's initial disbelief and some discussion, Fred and George are instantly mentioned by several as proof that such a thing might happen, but it's not until Lav and Parvati join them and confirm the rumours that anyone seems inclined to actually _believe_ them. They seemed so _far fetched_. 

Lav goes further and expands on the other girls' story with the information that the family is leaving the country for _Canada_. (One of the fourth year boys asks where _that_ is and, typically, suffers much mocking, not that so many of the others are entirely sure either. Also all too typically.) Parvati confirms Lav's tale, telling them how they'd heard about it in Xylomancy. Professor Sapworthy had been so kind as to cast the twigs for Jones. 

"And how did _that_ go, with her _gone_..." Kev's still trying to poke holes in their story. 

"In absentia, _clearly_." Lavender puts the muppeting fifth year in his proper place. 

" _Seriously_ , Kev," Parvati agrees. 

And then everything shifts and grows terribly sombre as Kiera tells the group in low tones that the reason the Headmaster had encouraged the bondings was because _a student had been_ attacked _last weekend_. That's met with all of the usual disbelief and discussion, which Dhanesh quickly quashes. 

"It's true," his tone is emphatic and discourages further debate. (He's somewhat easier to take more seriously without his tail.) "Our understanding was that it was a Muggle-born..." Kiera nods her agreement as the others look horror-struck.

A more analytical and cynical person might wonder if their likelihood of accepting something as truth increases if the gender of the individual asserting it is male. Of course, _that_ person is currently no longer taking meals in the Great Hall, and as such isn't tempted to wonder that. Silver linings. 

(The answer, sadly enough, is it _does_ , although it's unwarranted. Intriguingly, careful analysis would also reveal that that willingness happens to _decrease_ again if the individuals asserting things play Quidditch for the House team. It transpires _that_ prejudice is more justified.)

There will be a lot of discussion, one or two will ask if it could have been Hermione - she's not there, and they feel free to discuss her in her absence (honestly, her presence probably wouldn't have dissuaded them much either) - except she'd been in the Infirmary all weekend, so that seems unlikely. And, really, pulling the Jones girl from school seems such a _radical_ step. Surely something _serious_ must have taken place for that to happen in her final N.E.W.T.s year. 

Of course, they aren't the only ones thinking about Hermione.

* * *

  


Slinky pops into the kitchens at the beginning of the meal, desperate to meet two goals. 

The first is simple, or reasonably so anyway, which is lucky as he's duty and honour bound to address it first. He finds the food meant for the Snakes and watches as it's Banished to their table; he can't interfere yet without running the risk of dosing much of the House. Next he Apparates silently - and invisibly, of course; _he'd_ never have the poor taste to do so silently if _visible_ , unlike some - to the Great Hall behind the Malfoy's and the Zabini's seats. Using fairly straightforward magic, he proceeds to add the Saltpeter to their meals with another simple Depulso. Too easy, really. That is until he registers that the Crabbe is apparently absent, and he fears he needs to scour the castle to try to find where the bothersome boy has gone. 

Resigned to that being a more difficult chore, he returns to the kitchens and calls for assistance. His timing is wretched, as the elves are just in the process of trying to get lunch on the tables. They're not best pleased when he explains he'd like as many as possible to drop what they're doing and come to his aid. The 'what' is simple enough, he requires their help to find a missing piece of his uniform. The 'why', however, proves a sticky wicket, and his explanation is found extremely wanting. Without that, he's completely unable to convey the urgency of the mission. 

Of course, if he _had_ , they'd probably be inclined to think it serves him right. 

Winky, refusing to listen to him properly, simply mends his uniform in a bid for acceptance; sadly, the stink of Butterbeer on her breath all but precludes it, even if her status as a free elf hadn't already done so. And to Slinky's frustration, the sight of his repaired towel causes the remainder of the elves to turn away. Problem clearly solved. He tries again to explain he needs their help, _now_ , but can only manage to get them to agree to assisting him after the meal. 

Finally he gives up on convincing them otherwise, returns to the Slytherin elves' quarters and calls for his team. They appear quickly, not busy with the food preparation as the others are, the cleaning in the dorms mostly finished for the day, and only the laundry remaining. It's a small team, at four strong a mere fraction of the kitchen staff's number, but loyal, and they'll do as he asks and help him search for the bit of his uniform, at least until the others can join them. It gets him a jump on the task, and is clearly preferable to waiting, although he now has a little difficulty conveying what the scrap looked like as his towel is repaired. 

Winky is never _not_ a nuisance. 

While he's at it, Slinky also asks the others to help him try to find the Crabbe. 

They begin by searching all the places the Head is regularly known to frequent. All except his currently warded office, classroom and quarters, that is. Sunny is probably the only one of them who would have access to those areas, and Slinky imagines asking _him_ for help is tantamount to leaving the telltale scrap where it is if it were in any of those locations. He'll just report back to the Professor anyway. 

Thinking it over, however, Slinky decides it's unlikely to be there. Had he left something threatening behind in the office, the Head would scarcely wish to Banish the object behind the safety of his wards... No, he thinks it's far more probable that it will be somewhere public that the Head visits regularly.  
  


The ability to lurk unseen in the presence of the students eventually leads to the solutions to both of his problems. The elves discover the scrap of his uniform in the Great Hall, strangely at the end of the Gryffindors' table. And while pouring through the room searching for it, they happen to overhear some of the little Snakes mention that the Crabbe is in the Infirmary. 

Slinky wastes no time visiting with his jar of Saltpeter.

* * *

  


Attendance at lunch is poor amongst the older Slytherins. Nearly half of them are missing. Still more will leave soon. 

Sixth years Harper, Sheldon and Aaron had headed straight for the pitch where Millie, Hestia, and Val are surprised to discover them when they arrive there shortly after. The coincidence proves fortuitous - they're agreed, great minds think alike - and soon the six Housemates begin what will become the first in a daily series of strenuous Quidditch practices. They have nearly enough people to make a team themselves, and the Seeker's role has always been a solitary one anyway. The reserve players are really put through their paces for once, which proves just as well, as some of their regular teammates won't be up for practice this afternoon. 

Tracey and Flora, as the witches present in the Great Hall well know - but wouldn't dream of mentioning - are brewing Pain Relief in the dorms. 

And Vince, unsurprisingly, is still in the Infirmary, a fact which is a source of no small measure of pride for a number of the boys.

As none of the of the Slytherins are in Muggle Music first period, _obviously_ , Pansy and Blaise were the first of their House to learn that Jones, one of the Muggle-born Hufflepuffs, has pulled out of school. They're just coming from Xylomancy, where Moon had asked Professor Sapworthy to cast the twigs for Jones, to see how she'd fare in her new home abroad. Sapworthy had predicted the move would be fraught with difficulties, and argument ensues as to whether or not that isn't true almost by definition - moving house is _rarely_ easy - and how the blazes would they ever know either way. Blaise cheerily reminds the others about Sapworthy's prediction only yesterday about the 'three little snakes bringing' _someone_ 'to his knees'. 

Draco is about to groan again at the recollection, Merlin knows his bollocks still hurt, when he notices Blaise changed the prophecy somewhat in the retelling. Smirking, he asks, "Wasn't that 'the biggest snake' in the original version?" Thinking of his bollocks has that smirk taking on a decidedly disreputable air. 

Blaise gives him a sour look, and Draco will soon have reason to regret his smugness. The seventh year boys are far from popular right now, and the combination of witnessing his self-importance and a fundamental, and all too universal, human desire to wipe the smug look off his face will have some of his younger Housemates turning their attention in his direction in the near future. If their work with Vince was any indication, that's hardly a _desirable_ goal. 

Pansy is quick to agree with Draco's claim, eager as always to encourage others to recognise the Hogwarts Seers' talents. But half the House are no longer listening anyway, having moved on to speculating as to _why_ the Hufflepuff would have exmatriculated.

"That's _precisely_ what Professor Sapworthy said," Pansy confirms. "She Saw 'three little snakes bringing the biggest snake of them all to his knees...'" She shrugs a little apologetically towards Draco (they were his knees after all, and his _bollocks_ , for that matter), and then Blaise, who now looks even _more_ cross (because Draco must absolutely _always_ be the centre of attention), before it occurs to her that the exciting news and the boys' suffering yesterday in no way changes _anything_ and she's still quite mad at them both. Hang it all. 

This will take some adjusting. 

She's finding it harder to stay angry when she's angry on someone else's behalf. 

Turning her back towards them, she spots Theo, who seems to be going increasingly green about the gills. He'd been pushing his food idly about his plate, apparently having lost all appetite. That's probably a good thing, though, as he looks about ready to lose his lunch. 

As if in confirmation of that thought, Theo suddenly leaps from his seat, and without even a word of apology makes a wild scramble for the loo. 

Pansy hasn't the foggiest. And it's only Theo anyway. It's hardly worth worrying about. She turns back to her meal and the discussion of Seers, having less interest for the musings as to Muggle-borns' families' motives for... anything really. That strikes her as another waste of effort.  
  


Draco notices Theo freaking and can well imagine why. Circe's left tit. 

He sighs. 

The problem here, of course, is that he really can't say anything to his friend to clear this up. And he's not actually sure he _should_. What was he supposed to do? Tell him they'd attacked _Granger_? Well, he _can't_ and it wouldn't have helped. Honestly, considering how Theo's been behaving, it might be better to let him think what he's thinking as opposed to continuing to look at Granger/Snape or MacDougall as he's been doing today. 

This might just be a blessing in disguise. 

He sits there thoughtfully eating his meal as he watches Theo bolt from the room. It has the side effect of causing him to miss Pansy's change in behaviour again. But then he's sure to notice it soon enough.  
  


Daphne is exceptionally quiet at the news about Jones, joining in neither of the discussions it sparks. Theo's mad dash from the Hall has her worried. _Very_ worried. Not about _him_ , obviously, not beyond how he's doing, although that appears to be something worth worrying about... For a brief moment she considers following him until Torsten arrives asking, "What's with Theo? Was there something wrong with his lunch? Wizard's in the lav chundering up a storm."

At this, Draco rises after all, grabs Theo's books and goes to see to his friend. 

Róisín is quick to admonish Torsten for the graphic description, "I swear you're more disgusting than a Flobberworm, Tor. We're _eating_ here." His sister Tomasina grins at the rebuke until Róisín continues, "Were you raised by wolves?" 

_That_ naturally gives rise to some bickering between the Touchstones - presenting a united front just the once - and Róisín, _take that back_ , _there's never been a lycanthrope in the family's history_ and _I'm sure I didn't mean to imply there was_ , and Daphne studiously ignores them as she does all the others. 

Well, there's little point in trying to follow Theo into the gents'. 

But Daph's fears as to what the boys might have done, or at least to _whom_ , are beginning to crystallise. To get more information about this, she'll presumably need to go outside of the House. That's never easy. She deliberates which of the Hufflepuffs are most likely to be able to help her, and then which of _those_ might actually be _willing_. 

She'd had Jones in only two of her classes. Moon, who was apparently pretty close to Jones from what Pansy tells of the girl's reaction in Xylomancy, is in three of Daphne's classes. But she can't imagine the girl will welcome enquiries from her... She's more likely to think the Slytherin is trying to rub salt in the wound. Daph thinks her best bet might be to try asking Abbott, who sits with her in six of her seven courses. Which isn't to say they _know_ each other well... That's sort of the problem with other Houses. 

There's a brief flicker of relief - that she absolutely _hates_ herself for feeling - that _if_ something had to happen to _someone_ , at least it wasn't Hermione or MacDougal. She has them in four and three of her classes respectively. By that token, Perks, _Madam Smith_ is only in _one_ of her classes, and seems a fairly unpleasant sort... And Daph now is _mortified_ _that_ thought ever even _began_ to cross her mind, because she's perfectly capable of filling in her own blanks, thank you _so_ much. 

Merlin. 

She's becoming a _horrible_ person. 

She sits there blinking uncomfortably for a minute or two, trying not to think a whole _bunch_ of things, none of which she can do anything about anyway. She looks forward to being an adult with more control over her world, and then darkly wonders if that's even true. She takes a good look at her classmates and asks herself how much control _any_ of them are likely to have over their futures. 

She's having trouble shaking herself out of it. 

Fwoopers. 

_Fwoopers. Fwoopers. Fwoopers._

_Fwoopers and fairy wings._

And then she needs to try not thinking about _why_ Vince is sporting those wings. How did everything get so bad? And _when_?  
  


Ella, fortunately, pulls her out of her uncharacteristically gloomy thoughts, which is lucky indeed, because Daph just isn't built for this sort of thing. She _really_ isn't. 

The two girls had intended to leave the meal early to make a quick trip to the library to coordinate who will examine which sections as part of their search for books on bonding. Daphne has the next period free, but Ella doesn't, and they want to be sure not to cover the same ground, so it needs to be done in advance. 

Ella informs the seventh year she'll be leaving earlier yet, however, as she plans to take food to the three boys currently practising. "Harper had asked me if I'd mind, and if they're missing out on lunch to practise, really it seemed the least I could do. But you and I can still meet in the library afterwards.

"I was thinking of making a picnic of it and watching them play." She glances at the others around them and whispers, "The company's better, anyway."

"What, sitting all by yourself in the stands?" Daph then looks at Pansy trying to ignore Blaise, and Gregory sort of off by himself and sighs. "You might be right at that." She gives it a moment of thought and asks, "Were you planning on taking lunch for the girls, too?"

"Which girls?"

"Hunter said Millie and the other girls were going to be practising, it's why he brought her breakfast, so they must be out there as well." A quick look about the table confirms they aren't here, at least. It's funny that Daphne describes the girls that way, and reveals her superficial interest in the game. As the female sixth year players are regular teammates, and Millie's only a reserve Beater, most of their House would have mentioned Hestia and Val by name instead. But then again, Millie _is_ her roommate. 

"I thought that was just about them missing breakfast."

"In general, yes, but I think Millie's case was what sparked the idea. If you wouldn't mind the company, Ella, I'd be happy to join you," Daphne volunteers. 

"Are you kidding? Of course not," she readily agrees, and the girls begin packing a picnic lunch for what they'll soon come to think of as the Reserve team.  
  


Blaise spots them about to leave and calls out, "I say, Ella, wait a moment." Harper hasn't put in an appearance, and she's his best shot at a quick response. Well, unless he asks _Hunter_ , but he's not exactly sold on consulting a _fourth_ year. 

Which won't stop the aforementioned fourth year from listening in and offering his two Knuts. 

Not that Blaise seriously believes this is a problem, but Ella is sitting... _standing_ right there, she usually knows her way around legal questions, and it seems a shame not to just ask her. And if she doesn't know, he _is_ a bit loath to admit it, but _both_ Hutchinsons often do. That's a natural advantage to having solicitors in the family and listening at the dinner table, he supposes. Both families have only the one parent. In Ella's case, her mother serves on the Wizengamot, and the Hutchinson's father is a solicitor. These days he works as a prosecutor, although rumour has it that's not going well. Blaise isn't aware of the details. He's really never cared. 

"Maybe you'll know the answer. I had a letter from my mother," he starts and a few give him curious looks, because he obviously hadn't, well, unless one counts yesterday's Serpent, which is probably what he means. 

It is in fact.

He knows there's a risk that bringing this up will remind everyone of the Serpents' claims again, but he gets the feeling they haven't forgotten it, and it might not hurt to try to generate a little sympathy for himself and suggest he's already being punished. Plus because he really can't believe that he _is_ , it makes it that much easier for him to casually speak about it. Still, it seems wise to confirm that more objectively...

"And she informs me my allowance will be halved. But I have a trust fund, so aside from reducing the total funds at my disposal - which is a terrible shame, of course - it shouldn't actually dictate that I curtail my expenditures, should it?"

This is the first overt mention in a group setting with any of the seventh year boys present that they can probably expect to be disciplined for their actions. Not that most seem to recall them, but that's immaterial. Blaise looks around and realises the only other one of the boys there is Gregory, the younger students appear unapologetically disapprobatory, and even the seventh year girls look far from sympathetic. In fact, Gregory's the _only_ other member of the team present, too, now that he thinks about it. Which may help explain why the atmosphere is so hostile. 

Merlin. Blaise will need to talk to the others about this soon. They'll need to come up with something to placate the... masses. Somehow. 

It might be a little late for that. 

Hunter's eyes narrow as he watches Blaise. He's not given to envy, but sometimes some of their wealthier Housemates can be really... insensitive. He's glad Harper's out on the pitch. 

Ella looks at Blaise and blinks. That entitled little _twatwaffle_. She gets the feeling Blaise would have had no qualms about asking Harper had he been here and had she not been. Blaise is utterly tone deaf sometimes. Quite possibly more self-absorbed than Draco, even, which is something of an achievement. A dubious one, naturally, but still. She's just thankful she was here to field the wastrel's question. 

And she's glad Harper took his robe off the boy. Blaise deserved it. 

Her eyes narrow now, too, and she replies with some degree of relish, "It probably depends on whether or not there's a trustee for the fund."

"A what?" He asks, which probably isn't a good sign. The Touchstones chuckle. The Zabinis are no less wealthy than the Touchstones, but they're _new_ money and it often shows. 

"Gringotts?" Ella asks simply. 

He nods. "Where else."

"Owl them. You're apparently the beneficiary, but you need to know if there's a trustee for the account, and if so, for how long."

" _For how long_?" He squeaks and doesn't even _care_. 

"Could be until you're eighteen," Torsten suggests. Blaise looks a little concerned, that's _months_ away. But conceivably he could survive until April on half funds if he absolutely had to. And then Tomasina ruins it. 

"Could be until you're twenty-one," she's smirking a little. 

"Twenty-one!" He's appalled. "That seems unduly harsh. Surely eighteen is more reasonable..." 

Hunter crows, "Could be even older."

"Whatever _for_?" Blaise wails, his sangfroid a thing of the past. 

Ella shrugs. "Owl Gringotts," she repeats and then turns to Daphne instead, "We need to get going." And just like that, they leave Blaise sitting there having kittens. Daphne finds the sight picks her mood right up. 

She needed that. 

As they leave, she can still hear him whinging to the Touchstones, "But _why_ would they do something like that to a trust fund?"

Tomasina and Torsten, heirs to the Touchstone Triple T potions fortune, are both in their element, and Torsten fields this one. He might not be the natural with potions his sister is, much to his family's chagrin, but he _does_ understand a thing or two about financial arrangements. "Generally the thinking is that it's... _necessary_ when the beneficiary isn't... _mature_ enough to manage their own affairs."

"Not _mature_ enough??" Blaise doesn't seem to know where to look. "I'm mature enough!" He claims, indignant, and it's greeted by a number of snickers because that sounded very much like something straight from the mouth of a _Firstie_. 

If _that_. 

"Apparently not if you are currently doing things that result in the Professor being bonded," Tomasina gives him the world's sweetest smile. He's never seen a more radiant 'fuck you'.

"Clearly you lack... something," Torsten agrees and Blaise begins fidgeting uneasily in his seat. 

"'Good judgment' seems likely," Hunter is pleased for the opening. That earns him a lot of laughs from the other fourth years, Wilfred clapping him on the back. 

Accepting that in all probability he won't find much comfort - if _any_ \- here, and eager to get to the bottom of this, Blaise rushes from the Hall, his savoir faire as forgotten as his lunch, and heads for the owlery where he'll dash off a couple of lines to Gringotts. Uncertain as to the proper vocabulary to phrase his questions - with _his_ Housemates, there's a very _real_ chance a 'trustee' is actually one of Hagrid's creatures - he decides to take the most direct approach and requests funds from his account. 

If it works, he needn't concern himself further. 

Simple. 

Elegant. 

Rather like himself. (Elegant, not simple, that is.) 

He's rather proud of that solution, which provides him with a small sense of satisfaction. For a little while at least. It's a nice respite during which he manages to convince himself the others were just having him on. 

It doesn't hold. The goblins are exceedingly efficient, and he'll soon have a reply to his owl which leaves him in even more of a state: his request is _denied_. Much to Hunter's delight, Blaise's grandparents had indeed made his _mother_ the trustee of his fund until he turns _twenty-five_. Predictably, having cut his allowance, she won't permit him to draw from the account either, as he'll soon discover. 

He'll still have more Galleons at his disposal than most of his Housemates, of course, but he's far more poorly equipped to come to terms with the sum available and will suffer markedly - and very publicly - in the months to come. 

It begins with his much lamented inability to replace his robe and gets worse from there. 

Harper will find himself relishing wearing the thing even more and will take to hanging about the common room in it after curfew every chance he gets. 

He won't even care how many times Professor Swoopstikes' portrait chides him for his dress.

* * *

  


Harry and Ron are late to lunch, Harry once again having dragged Ron to the pitch for some Quidditch before the meal. It seems to help him decompress, and Merlin knows the boy could use the extra practice after his miserable performance this morning. 

Scanning the table, Ron slips into a seat further down from the rest (he and the House are at odds), noting that Hermione isn't there. _Again_. All sign of his hard won ease vanishes completely as he looks over his shoulder to the High Table and registers that _Snape_ isn't there as well. His protracted hissed whisperings as to just _why_ that might be have Harry contemplating planting his fork in Ron's hand as he reaches for yet another pastie from the plate between them. 

It would certainly give the ginger something else to think about.  
  


When Harry spots Snape entering just a little bit later, he holds his breath, fearing, but half expecting, what with the way his luck seems to be running, that Hermione will arrive now, too. He doesn't want to _begin_ to imagine what Ron would say then. 

But Ron's too focused on his diatribe and lunch to notice Snape, and Harry patiently waits for the next several minutes for 'Mione to put in an appearance. 

Curiously, he notices he hasn't heard a word Ron has said in the interim. That distraction thing really _does_ work a treat. 

When minutes later she still hasn't arrived (Ron hasn't noticed that Harry hasn't responded to a single thing he's said in the meantime either), Harry sighs in relief and then points out that Snape is there. 

Which apparently also serves to function as a distraction, and is kinder than spearing the boy's hand with one's fork. 

Probably.

Ron begins watching Snape like a hawk. 

One of the things he happens to register as he does so is that the man doesn't eat much. Like next to nothing at all. For Ron, that is a fact that makes _no sense_ _whatsoever_.

He sees it. It's incontrovertibly true. But he can't reconcile it with anything familiar. 

The man just sits there. Not eating. 

This paradox - someone's presence at meal _without_ consuming food - leads to much furious thinking, and Ron's nearly overtaxed by the conundrum. He eventually decides that thinking isn't great for the digestion (Harry would suggest it was the dine-atribe), but the obvious conclusion, of course, was that the man had already... partaken with 'Mione. 

Harry is predictably thrilled when he's confronted with that little leap in logic, and resumes contemplating where best to park the tines of his fork. As mental exercises go, he find this helps _him_ decompress.  
  


The explanation, naturally, boils down to the simple fact that Severus vastly prefers Sunny's cooking to the fare in the Great Hall. Feeling he deserves a treat today, he will return to his office before class where he'll enjoy some of _that_ instead of the abysmal _fodder_ everyone else seems to accept. 

Thoroughly indiscriminate eaters. 

Not an epicurean amongst them.

* * *

  


By agreement, Flora and Tracey meet in one of the semi-private rooms off to the side of the Slytherin common room to brew the Pain-Relieving Potion. Chances are it was once used for some arts that have since fallen into disfavour, thoroughly forgotten. There are traces of the different kinds of things that might once have been done here, looms and easels, a spinning wheel and a lathe, but no one can recall it serving any real designated purpose, and they haven't thought to ask the portraits. 

That's mostly because they fear another unending lecture from Salazar. 

The girls have retrieved their lunches and the communally collected ingredients, and Tracey returns Flora's satchel. They settle into an easy rhythm, Flora chops the ingredients for Tracey, and the seventh year sees to adding them at the appropriate times and manages the proper stirring. Once the active part of their work is finished for the time being, they sit down to eat as the Potion boils away, reducing. 

Between bites, Flora asks, "I don't suppose you have any idea what happened to the Pain Relief in the dorms last weekend? Because _I_ personally had some, I'm sure of it, and I've heard several others say the same. They can't _all_ be mistaken... 

"Well, technically they _could_ , but you know what I mean." 

Certainly. 

Something foul was afoot. 

It just so happens Tracey's given this some thought. A _lot_ of thought, in fact. In retrospect, she wouldn't rule out the Head as being behind the disappearance of the potions, knowing how badly the seventh year boys had been doing without them this past weekend, and as she now knows they were responsible for his bonding... He certainly had motive. But the man had the best alibi imaginable. Not even someone as skilful as their Head could Vanish the potions in a _coma_. She's _sure_ of it. 

Well, _reasonably_ sure of it. 

And even if he _had_ , there could be no blame attached to something inadvertently done while in that state. 

No, more likely, if there _were_ someone actually to _blame_ for what happened, had it been a _deliberate_ act, then in light of the man's instance on reintroducing bondings, the _Headmaster_ was behind it. That seems probable. It was presumably part of his punishment scheme... 

Tracey is far from the only one to arrive at that conclusion since the Serpents hissed their news yesterday. 

All Tracey answers her younger Housemate is, "I'd tend to agree. And while I don't _know_ what happened," there's something about the furrow to her brow that leaves Flora with the distinct feeling that Tracey agrees _someone_ was maliciously behind it, and doesn't care for the individual _in the least_. With the way she'd been looking at it, Flora takes that for a probable confirmation that Tracey agrees Professor Dumbledore was the wizard in question. "But I mean to take steps not to be caught without again." 

The man had been a Gryffindor. Even he has limits. And young Snakes have a variety of lesser known ways to hide contraband, which they've now begun to contemplate. Not that any of them have previously considered _Pain Relief_ as such, but they adapt. 

Flora nods solemnly. Her parents should have something appropriate they can loan the girls to deal with this. She'll need to find a way to word that unobtrusively in an owl home, and no later than the next Hogsmeade weekend, they could do a handoff, and that should be sorted. 

Flora is in excellent company. Some version of those thoughts will be going through _every single one_ of the senior students' minds and a fair few of those of their younger Housemates as well. Some will have poorer connections, the Hutchinsons' father and Tracey's family, for examples, are less likely to have those kinds of artefacts lying about. 

They're not alone. 

Most in their shoes will peruse owl catalogs in the days to come to see if they can't find a suitable article to arrange to purchase. Harper and Tracey, both less monied, will trust to their skills, and set about learning how to Transfigure one potion into something less likely to be impounded. The idea would have been a good one, too, except such a Transfiguration isn't likely to fool a house elf, and ultimately, if anyone ran a test on the substance, Gamp's law dictates that it must fail. 

But then what are the chances anyone in the castle would think to test unidentifiable potions?

* * *

  


Severus takes his customary seat in the Great Hall. A quick survey of the end of the Gryffindors' table revealed nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing but Potter and Weasley, who seem intent on taking it in turns to watch him. So be it. He's practically used to it by now. 

At the High Table, conversation flows less smoothly today. This is Severus' first meal with his colleagues since Monday's ill managed announcement, and it's proving a bit... awkward. 

All conversation stops as he takes his seat, and they eat in silence while he sits there sipping his tea. He pokes listlessly at his plate before deciding to pass on the meal and have Sunny bring him something later instead. He's earned it. 

Growing tired of the unnatural quiet - although oddly enough he _usually_ wishes they'd be more taciturn as a whole; somehow it's different when _he's_ the reason for it - he turns to Hagrid. 

"It's come to my attention that at least one member of my House has begun pilfering homework assignments from fellow Slytherins, the result, perhaps, of a wager gone very wrong. Have you had any difficulty with that?"

Hagrid furrows his brow, "Twice this week already, Perfesser, 'smatter of fact. Goyle yesterday, and Crabbe Monday, but I din' wan' ter bother yeh with it, what with..." He gestures a little helplessly with one of his enormous hands, indicating Severus. The Potions Master really isn't sure if the half giant means Severus' stay in the Infirmary, the bonding or even the man's breaking of his ribs Monday, any _one_ of which would probably have been a good reason not to speak to him about missing homework. But then Severus is the one who has brought it up. 

"It would be such a shame to see the House suffer for it," he begins silkily, and one or two people behind him think he's trying to get some lazy Snakes out of their just punishments and are a little surprised when Severus continues, "I'd appreciate it if instead of taking House points," Severus can hear Pomona already making 'tsking' noises, "you'd consider giving them detention. Particularly _harsh_ detentions, might be appropriate, until they get this out of their systems. I'd so hate to punish all the rest for their bout of... wilful stupidity."

"Yeh _wan'_ me to give 'em _detention_?"

"It seems fair, don't you think?"

"If someone _else_ took their work?" Hagrid's trying - hard - to make sure he's got this straight. 

"'Boys will be boys'," Severus smarms with a wave of his hand, "as Albus is so fond of saying. I can assure you, something like this _doesn't_ happen in Slytherin without... provocation."

"Mr. Nott didn't have his Charms assignment today," Filius squeaks up now. Severus is well aware. "I didn't take House points, however."

"I imagine you didn't give him detention, though, either."

Filius' cheeks gain a rosy hue. "I reassigned the work and added another six inches to it." He sounds slightly defensive. Considering it was Nott, that's probably a fair solution. Severus nods. 

"Not that he seemed to notice, though. He was highly distracted all through the lesson..." Filius continues. 

Septima is quick to agree he'd been no better in Arithmancy, and they both glance at the Slytherins' table where the boy is now missing. It had been hard to miss his flight from the room, and that had come after he'd sat there prodding his meal apathetically. Something is wrong with the boy. But given what Severus has been through the past couple of days, asking him about it just now seems... In poor taste. They give each other significant looks. 

Severus attempts to draw their attention back to the point he's trying to make. And he certainly doesn't need _staff_ taking an interest in Nott's condition. "I'm simply concerned this will get out of hand with the boys if we don't put a decisive stop to it. Given it appears to be localised to the seventh years, the pressure the rest of the House can bring to bear on them is limited, which makes deductions in House points the poorer solution, I should think. 

"I'd like to see this behaviour very... strongly discouraged, and I believe detentions are the best way to do so. Individual accountability," his lips tighten momentarily at the thought, but then his features relax again and he almost smiles. Even Hagrid recognises something predatory in the expression. Of course he's accustomed to working with dangerous animals. "I simply wanted to assure you, you have my full support in _any_ measures you take against them."

It's... unexpected. When Heads of House involve themselves in such matters, it's invariably to try to intervene on _behalf_ of their students, to mitigate the punishments their charges receive. 

"I took points from both of the lads. Bu' I suppose I could change tha'..."

"You could almost _certainly_ use some help with your animals, couldn't you? They're both... strong boys, I'm confident they could make themselves... _useful_ for once."

"An' yeh don' mind?" He's clearly struggling to accept it. 

"Hagrid, Minerva has long been given to assigning detentions when students don't complete her work. If your punishment is less severe than hers, yours will _always_ be the class they choose to neglect when pressed to prioritise. You mustn't sell your course or the material you instruct short."

It's unusually good advice, which throws more than a few present. 

But of course, they aren't looking at it properly. 

What he says is true, however not terribly _relevant_. Of the roughly twenty students in each of their seventh year N.E.W.T.s classes, only a small fraction of them are in both Transfiguration and Care for Magical Creatures, and none of _them_ likely to cause Hagrid any problems. Miss Greengrass was scarcely about to begin misbehaving in his class of a sudden, after all... 

Still, Hagrid seems duly impressed, and most of those present resolve to do exactly as Severus suggests. 

Not that that stops the conversation from languishing again...

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there are any other lego fans out there, the lego stores and online shop in many countries have a promotion going until 21 November or supplies run out. Freebie microbuild of Diagon Alley. 
> 
> Link to the US page, fwiw.  
> https://shop.lego.com/en-US/Diagon-Alley-40289


	99. 11 12l Wednesday - Lunch at the Castle 2

**Severus (HoS, Potions), Hermione 7G (Prefect, Supreme Swot)**

**Staff:**  
Albus Dumbledore (dying Headmaster, but ffs, not nearly fast enough...), Professor Minerva McGonagall (HoG, Transfiguration), Professor Filius Flitwick (HoR, Charms), Professor Pomona Sprout (HoH, Herbology), Poppy Pomfrey (Mediwitch extraordinaire), Professor Sybill Trelawney (Divination; Scarves, Tealeaves, Patchouli, oh my!), Professor Sarah Sapworthy (Xylomancy, Twigs!), Hagrid (Care of Magical Creatures, Keeper of not-so-wee Beasties), Professor Terrence 'Call-Me-Terry' Taylor (DADA), Irma Pince (Librarian), Nurse Wanda Wainscott (chatty), Madam Rolanda Hooch (older but better, likely to take flight), Professor Septima Vector (Arithmancy), Professor Charity Burbage ( _still_ Instructor of Muggle Studies) 

**Slytherins:**  
Draco 7S (Prefect, Team Captain, Seeker, Swot), Theo Nott 7S (Swottiest, Nervous Wreck), Gregory Goyle 7S (Beater), Daphne Greengrass 7S (Sparkly! Fwoopers!), Harper Hutchinson 6S (Prefect, Chaser, flash Robe Model), Ella Wilkins 6S (Prefect)

**Mentioned briefly:**  
**Slytherins:** Vincent 'Vince' Crabbe (winged, couchless potato), Tracey Davis 7S (Swottier) **Gryffindors:** Harry 7G, Ron 7G, Ginny 6G, Dhanesh Devi 6G (bonded to Kiera 6G, sadly tailless), Hafsa Devi 5G (Dhanesh's sister), Dennis Creevey 4G **Ravenclaws:** Darius Inglebee 4R (good and hexed by Dennis), Latisha Randle 6R (Muggle-born) **Others:** Winky (free elf in Albus' service, one time house elf to the Crouch family), Moaning Myrtle (pervy ghost), Amelia Bones (Susan's 7H aunt), Lucius Malfoy, Wilkins family, Elizabeth Wilkins (Ella's mum), Hutchinson family, Heliotrope Hutchinson (Harper's and Hunter's mum)

* * *

* * *

  
**Previously:**  
Albus learns Hermione's Loyalty Vow isn't up to snuff. 079 He also informed the Heads this morning that Muggle-born Megan Jones 7H had withdrawn from the school. 096 Word is making its way through the faculty and student body. 

Theo, somewhat inappropriately still wrestling with feelings of guilt about what the seventh year Slytherin boys may have done (ongoing since Draco gave him his mother's letter to read), learns Hufflepuff Megan Jones has withdrawn from school. Drawing his own (erroneous) conclusions, he dashes for the loo and loses what little of the meal he'd consumed. Draco goes to check on him. 098

The sixth year Slytherin Chasers decide to train the reserve players during lunch, in case the seventh years are... inadvertently knocked out of service for the upcoming game against Gryffindor. 083 Which seems increasingly likely. Ella and Daphne decide to bring them something to eat. 098

Daphne Transfigures Harper's slippers while buying the girls time to decide how to handle the seventh year boys. She manages to make them match the robe Harper negotiated off of Blaise. 091

Staff reacted poorly to news of Severus bonding Miss Granger 040 until the young woman gave them a bollocking. 041 Hagrid went so far as to break Severus' ribs. This is his first meal with the rest of faculty since, and things are a bit... awkward. 

Dennis Creevey 4G jinxed Darius Inglebee 4R for attacking his friend Newton Kurz 4H. 080 It went pear shaped, and Filius and Poppy have been trying, without much luck, to set it to rights since. 

Severus encourages Hagrid to punish the boys harshly if they 'forget' their homework. 098

Irma Pince bans Hermione from the Restricted Section for the story she reportedly told that she'd been attacked by books there. 070 Not to be outdone, Hermione Confunded Madam Pince in an altercation over her treatment of Geminioed library books last night. 080

Vince got repeatedly charmed, jinxed and hexed out the wazoo, and then taken to the Infirmary. (Ongoing through 097)

Sunny and Severus manoeuvred to have Draco fall down the Grand Staircase and miss Monday's classes so Hermione would have a chance to acclimate to the new situation and get her friends onboard. Not that _that_ worked out so well for her, but still. It's the thought that counts. (Revealed 039)

* * *

* * *

  


Albus decides to skip lunch today. Winky had brought him a late breakfast, and he'd sent much of it back to the kitchens, untouched. If he gets hungry later, he can always... Well. He'd said much the same at breakfast, now hadn't he? _That's_ becoming an all too regular thing. 

He sighs, more resigned than frustrated. 

Which isn't to say that approach to meals isn't the best solution. 

He eats what he can, when he can. He needs to keep his strength up. 

But at the moment, he'd prefer to use his time more wisely than joining the others in the Great Hall for the meal. (Severus would concur, virtually on a meal to meal basis, but then that's a good part of why he isn't permitted a choice.)

Miss Granger's report last night of the problems with her Loyalty Vow has Albus worried. His fingers tangle absently in his beard, which he now tugs in distraction. 

He's not altogether certain if he can add to the bonding Vows _after_ the fact. It would be preferable, obviously, as they're second only to Unbreakable Vows in their strength. (Of course, _now_ he's trying not to think about how _despite that_ , he'd still managed to make such a pig's ear of hers... He really is slipping. _Badly_.) Unfortunately there's a limit to how many Unbreakable Vows he can sensibly afford to have in play here, and the point had never been to _punish_ her for failure, simply to make it an _impossibility_. So that's out of the question. 

Probably. 

But even if they can't expand the bonding Vows ex post facto, she can always take another Oath. 

He grunts to himself in amusement. He suspects she won't soon be willing to take another Oath for him for _any_ reason.  
  


Well, perhaps for Severus...  
  


Albus clearly needs more information on bonds and adding to their Vows, and of course on Vows in general... And possibly on Oaths and how to structure them more robustly. 

Firmly decided, he heads for the library.

* * *

  


Draco enters the loo only to be greeted by retching sounds. 

Hmm. 

It's decidedly off putting, and rapidly becoming nauseous himself, he flicks up a Privacy Charm around Theo's stall, rather banking on the boy being too... occupied to chat at the present. Theo's shoes, just peeking out from under the door, rather gave his location away. Someone has quilled 'Hex Me' onto the soles. Draco's betting on some of their younger Housemates having gotten to Theo first. At least he hopes it's not something the older ones might do. And how lovely that it's currently more likely to have been someone _within_ than _without_ the House. 

This promises to be a rotten year. 

Well, even more so than expected. 

He casts a spell to clean the writing from Theo's shoes, but it fails. Permanent Ink then. Splendid. 

He casts a third spell, a Cleaning Charm on the floor - it's the boys' lavatory after all, and no matter how good, how conscientious the house elves are, it's only a sensible precaution - and then takes a seat on the floor just outside the stall, with his back to its walls. 

"Hey," he greets Theo, but no answer can come. That might be worth mentioning. "I put up the House Privacy Charm for you. You'll need to end it when you're... When you want to speak. Oh, and I brought your books, by the way..." He's not sure what to say to his friend, and can't help feeling this is all his fault. If he hadn't showed Theo the letter. 

He nearly laughs at himself, but there's no humour in it. 

_If he hadn't showed Theo the letter_... He lets out a mirthless huff of laughter now after all. As if _the letter_ were the problem. 

Merlin, if he'd never laid hand or wand on Granger... _That's_ probably the core of the problem right there. 

Or taken the Dark Mark. Or met Potter. Or been born... Maybe that last one is the real issue. He hardly knows where to begin. 

He looks around and finds himself wishing Myrtle were here. But then it's probably better this way. He's not sure Theo's in any condition to watch what he says. 

He weighs the odds between mindless chatter and silence helping more, and decides against speaking. He's not sure he should risk it, he's too likely to say something wrong. Give something away. Make matters worse. Instead he sits there quietly keeping Theo company. He fishes a bottle of ink from his robes, and with a wave of his wand applies a thin coat to Theo's shoes. It covers up the writing at least. And now he sort of hopes his roommate will stay put for a few minutes more until the stuff dries, because he really doesn't want to explain it. 

He needn't have worried. Theo doesn't move for a while. At least not from within the confines of the loo walls. 

Eventually the shoes disappear into the stall. 

Not long after, Theo lifts the Charm and emerges, pale as a ghost. Well, nearly. Extremely pale, with a bit of a greenish tinge. It doesn't suit him. 

It wouldn't suit _anyone_. 

Wordlessly, he crosses to the sink and sticks his head under the faucet, taking a large mouthful of water and rinsing before applying a Dentifricium Charm to clean his teeth. Next he washes his face - manually. Draco wonders a little at that, but there's something different about using water instead of a Charm. Draco watches all of it silently, waiting for Theo to speak. 

Not that he's relieved when he does. 

"So. Jones then?"

"You know I couldn't tell you if it was."

"Why else do you suppose a Muggle-born might pack up midterm?"

"Do you really want me to hypothesise as to Muggle family logic? What's the point, Theo?"

"It was because of us." 

Draco thinks it over. That's probably true, actually. Not the way Theo means it, but really... Their actions led to this. 

He shrugs. It's all the answer he'll give. Theo takes it the wrong way, or maybe the right way. Either way, he feels Draco has confirmed his deductions. It's probably just as well. 

He stands there leaning against the sinks, cradling his face in his hands, working his fingers through his hair in abject misery. Draco still hasn't gotten up off the floor. When Theo doesn't move for some time, very quietly, he finally says, "You won't have to worry anymore about seeing her in class. At least there's that."

Theo finally looks up, his face a tortured mask. That doesn't seem to be a source of consolation just yet. Draco is certain that will come with time. Even Theo is too pragmatic for it not to. But for the present apparently he needs to torment himself a little more. 

Draco can sympathise. Merlin knows, he's been there himself often enough.  
  


They stay there in silence, pursuing their own miserable lines of thought until the door flies open again, and another member of their House rushes in, ending their deadlock.

* * *

  


Ella and Daphne make their way to the pitch, Vince's assorted hexes providing plenty of topics for conversation. Daphne, quite naturally, has a particular favourite. "You haven't seen those wings before either, have you?" 

Ella has to disappoint her, but is able to suggest an avenue of enquiry. "They looked pretty real to me. Organic. Normally I'd say human Transfiguration, and a difficult one at that. So N.E.W.T. Level at the least, for sure." Daphne nods in agreement. That had been her take precisely, of course, but then that wouldn't pose a problem for her. It _would_ , however, greatly limit the pool of suspects, and she's determined to work her way through the lot. Ella, as one of the brightest in her year, was understandably near the top of that list. One on one, Daph thinks whoever was behind the spell is less likely to refuse her. "But one of the fifth year Moggies cast something the other day that gave her brother a tail, and if she's anything like Devi - Merlin knows, I've had him in enough of my classes - it can't have been all _that_ difficult..." 

Daphne giggles, "That's assuming the result was _supposed_ to be a mouse tail, now isn't it?"

"Fair enough." Ella giggles back. "With their track record, who knows, it _might_ have been the Fairy Wing Charm." She takes advantage of the fact they're alone to be a bit silly and sticks her tongue out teasingly at Daphne. It's so much more pleasant when they aren't being told how to behave _properly_. 

"Oh, well then maybe I should ask _them_ if they can teach me, as no one else seems willing," Daph counters with a smile. "But I'm not so sure we're in a position to talk, or do you think Vince's ears were supposed to _flap_?" 

"Not unless someone has been creative..." 

"Seems a bit of a waste if _that_ was the result."

"And now _you're_ assuming that was always the intended result of any such creativity," Ella lifts a brow in her best Snapean fashion, and then winks. "Plus it rather depends on how the flapping felt and how long it took Madam Pomfrey to put a stop to them, now doesn't it?" Both girls giggle again, because Ella is absolutely right, of course, as anyone who has ever stubbed their toes with sufficient force can attest. It isn't always the big, _obvious_ things that bring wizards to their knees. 

As Professor Sapworthy would have it, sometimes it's a tiny Serpent. Or three. 

Ella continues, "But seriously, I was thinking, it might be worth looking into the subject of simplified human Transfigurations. I had one book in my hands a few weeks ago that hinted at such a thing as a _category_ , and not simply a few spells in isolation. Maybe I can find it again for you later."

"Oh, would you? That would be lovely!" Daph's cooing again. She's one of the few Snakes who do, and the others are much younger. She takes a bit of grief for it, but frankly, there are enough people - and on balance, probably the _right_ ones - who find her enthusiasm makes her more amiable company. "You were able to get a pass, too, then?"

"Yes. I suppose Hestia was right on that score." Ella doesn't sound entirely pleased. 

"There are worse things than being trusted," Daph objects. 

Ella just laughs, genuinely amused. "For a _Slytherin_?" And now Daphne's laughing, too. She enjoys spending time with the sixth year Prefect. Ella's a bit like a warmer, friendlier version of Tracey, but then Daph suspects that's because Ella has fewer worries about the political situation than Tracey does, what with Madam Wilkins being a well-established presence on the Wizengamot. 

That _has_ to help. 

Of course, _that_ might be neglecting - utterly - to consider what happened to Susan Bones' aunt Amelia. Her high profile Wizengamot position definitely hadn't kept _her_ safe, quite the contrary. But then again, Elizabeth Wilkins is far more moderate. And unlike Amelia Bones, she is _not_ the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and was certainly never once considered as a possible replacement for Cornelius Fudge as Minister when he... stepped down. There are advantages to not standing in the Lumos as both the Wilkins and Hutchinson families learnt in the last war, and Elizabeth takes her responsibility to her daughter very seriously. 

She won't deliberately make herself a target. Not like Heliotrope Hutchinson had, however inadvertently, whether through ambition or personal conviction or some combination of the two. 

Daphne's viewpoint also doesn't reflect the fact that both the Wilkins and Hutchinson families had lost far more in the last war than the Davises have, but that's only fair as it's never really openly discussed. The superficial facts are known, naturally, of course they are, but they tend to lack context, which makes the ramifications even harder to truly comprehend. For all the Snakes' predilection for grasping pressure points, when it comes to their own, if the situation is sufficiently _horrifying_ , propriety demands they maintain a fierce and abiding silence on the matter. They're Britons, after all. 

And those less concerned with propriety, there are certainly a few, are generally equally less well equipped to understand the meaning of those events. But then that's frequently the case when there's so little empathy. It makes it a good deal harder to fathom what things truly mean to others. 

Ironically, in some ways the Wilkinses' and Hutchinsons' losses have been liberating. Because of what they've been through, the members of those families no longer live quite so much in fear of what _could be_ as Tracey does. Their struggles, such as they are, are with surviving and coping with what actually _happened_. In the Wilkinses' case, that's admittedly proving more successful than in the Hutchinsons'. With some sadness, Elizabeth considers that only too predictable. She has always credited the assistance she'd received from the Hutchinsons as instrumental in getting her where she is today. They'd taken her and her daughter in after a random Fiendfyre attack claimed her husband's life and their home when Ella was just a baby, and then the Hutchinsons had done everything in their power to help get them back on their feet. 

Elizabeth has always regretted not quite being able to repay the favour in kind after Heliotrope was murdered.  
  


"Speaking of Transfiguration, I saw the work you did on Harper's slippers. That was simply _beautiful_ embroidery. Did you do that spontaneously, or..." Ella has done the maths for Transfiguring Harper's pyjamas more than once since the beginning of term, hoping to be on hand with the solution if an opening ever presented itself to _do_ something without insulting her friend. She could well imagine Daphne might have done something of that fashion as well, it would be very like her, but it wouldn't account for how she managed to make the slippers match _Blaise's robe_. She could hardly have known Harper would come to be the proud new owner of the thing...

Daph pinks, because she really is the oddest little Snake, and admits she'd done the calculations for the slippers well in advance, which makes Ella smile, and not just because she was right. "Not that it helped much. They were Transfigured from who knows what and completely fell apart at first when I tried." Ella winces in sympathy - Merlin knows, she's been there - but Daph shakes her head, smiling. Mistakes happen, and she'd been reasonably sure she could make good in the end, or she wouldn't have risked making matters worse. Of course it helps that her mistakes generally don't involve other people's body parts; there really is a lot to be said for not running around all hex happy as some do. "But I think it worked out well enough. The snakes were a last minute touch," the seventh year shrugs modestly.

" _Well done_ , Daph. _Really_ well done. Is that something you've done a lot of?"

"A little bit, now and again. There's not much call for it."

Ella lets out a huff of amusement, "Have you looked around our House lately? There are tapestries all over the place. Surely there must be _some_ demand for work like that."

"Oh, certainly. _Centuries_ ago. They're not exactly _new_ , now are they?"

"Ah, but you never know when disaster might strike and we'd need to replace the lot," Ella jokes. It's a little close to home; they'd lost everything but Ella herself in the fire sixteen years ago, and awareness of that in Slytherin is sufficient at least that no one else would _ever_ make a joke like that in her presence. Of course that's part of why _she_ does. She'll never feel normal until people treat her that way. 

But other than that? _Seriously_? Who builds their dormitory _underwater_?

Teasing aside, the Dungeon's location is a completely irrational source of comfort to the Wilkinses, and mother and daughter had breathed sighs of relief when she was sorted there. Given their history, they just can't help it. They assume the chances of a fire _there_ are rather slim.  
  


The girls discuss career choices and the rather piss poor advice Daphne's class had received from that horrible Umbridge woman, and if it had gone any better last year with Professor Dumbledore back in the Headmaster's position (Ella is inclined to feel it hadn't by much; it seemed like he was just Flooing it in) until they reach the pitch.

* * *

  


Charity Burbage, Professor of Muggle Studies, makes an heroic effort at reviving the conversation, and in the most inclusive manner she can conceive asks her colleague, "So, Severus, how are... things?" That earns her a blank look. "Going?" And _now_ Severus fixes her with his quirked eyebrow of disdain. "Um, with... uh..." She flails. 

Grandly. 

"Married life?" Rolanda supplies with a wicked grin as Septima struggles not to laugh. Severus will have Rolanda's guts for garters one of these days; _Septima_ has no desire to make his 'naughty' list as well. 

Severus is suitably pleased _not_ to choke on his tea once again.

Filius, so kindly, takes care of that for him, spluttering up a storm. Fortunately Pomona is too busy trying to suppress giggles of 'canoodling' as Severus glares at Charity and Rolanda to think to clap Filius on the back. Considering their relative sizes, her strength, and the enthusiasm with which she normally claps, he might not have survived it. 

Hagrid, by contrast, simply sprays his tea over Professor Taylor, who sits there, dripping and trying to wipe up the mess. Most at the table would have favoured a Tergeo, but Terrence is... different to the rest. 

_Clearly_. 

The problem is compounded when Hagrid draws what most might take for a tablecloth from his pocket (they'd be correct as to its origins if not its purpose) and begins to try to blot the man dry. With all his typical care. **Blot. Blot. Blot.** Hagrid's never really grasped his own strength, and Taylor nearly collapses under the onslaught. 

Severus would think withering things about the man's inability to raise a Protego in time against the shower of tea - or Hagrid's attempts to towel him dry, for that matter - worrying in a DADA instructor, but he's too preoccupied trying to curb Rolanda's glee with nothing more than his gaze. 

With a lesser witch, it would have worked. 

That's presumably true for the majority of the population, in point of fact.

Rolanda, naturally, never stops grinning, but then Charity's decidedly abashed enough for the both of them. Ah, the young people these days, so terribly _uptight_. It might have cheered Charity to know Rolanda grouped her amongst them. Given her mortification, however, it was unlikely to have helped _much_ just at the present. 

Severus sits there, wondering - passingly - if Albus would object - _terribly_ \- if he were to Avada Rolanda along with the gnarled old goat when the time comes. At the moment, it certainly seems... tempting. Whatever else, she's _obviously_ itching for another Depilating Draught... 

If things had been awkward before, they're more so now, and there's much blushing - on Charity's part, it should be noted; neither Severus nor Rolanda are given to that sort of thing - and the silence that follows (aside from Filius' subsiding chokes) is quite spectacular for the normally chatty table.  
  


"Why, ducky. Just ducky," Severus eventually retorts when no one seems inclined to end the impasse.  
  


There's another beat in which no one says anything, although a few people stare, and then suddenly Professor Taylor begins to chuckle. It's only a moment before his chuckles yield to laughter, the sort of deep belly laugh that soon has the man shaking. Rolanda is quick to join him, and the two chortle up a storm, thigh slapping and practically falling about, clutching at one another in their mirth. Call-Me-Terry, it would seem, has his occasional moments. 

Admittedly they're few and far between. 

The rest of the table does their best to ignore them. Merlin knows, they're practised. 

Filius can understand Charity's discomfort with the ensuing efforts at conversation only too well after his own excruciating one with Severus' bondmate. Clearly trying to discuss anything related to that bond with _him_ was doomed to be far worse. Filius makes a valiant stab at coming to her rescue, taking up the conversational baton, as it were. And of course it was something he'd meant to ask Severus anyway... He'll give it a swish and a flick.  
  


"I say, Severus, about the... Jinx used on Mr. Boot yesterday, would you have any idea which Countercharm to apply to best treat it?" It garners him a raised brow as well, thankfully less disdainful than the one Severus had gifted Charity. But, really, it's only fair Severus should help sort this. One of his _had_ cast the thing on Mr. Boot yesterday, after all. "We've had two more cases since, and Mr. Inglebee's is proving most resistant."

"There's no need for a Charm, Filius," Severus answers in measured tones (that don't _quite_ suggest the man is an imbecile for asking), but if _Severus_ knows the answer, he rather expects Filius to as well. This was hardly dark magic, and Charms _are_ the man's subject, after all. Of course, it helps that Severus has the advantage of having performed Legilimency on the boys after the duel. He hardly had the opportunity to wonder what on earth he was looking at before he simply _knew_. Things generally seem a good deal simpler once one knows the answers. "The Boil-Cure Potion should work just fine." And now he pauses, genuinely perplexed. "Why isn't Poppy treating it that way already?"

"Ah. Are you _quite_ sure?" Filius asks, and Severus' quirked eyebrow in reply _isn't_ as restrained as his voice. Filius can scarcely help noticing and tries to justify the question, "They certainly didn't _look_ like that would be the best approach. And the third case seems _very_ different."

"But you're certain it's the same jinx?" Filius' head bobs rapidly. "Perhaps a miscast," Severus shrugs. 

"Most _definitely_ a miscast," the Charmsmaster agrees. "It appears to have... gone a little off the mark.

"It could be..." He pauses considering Severus' suggestion, deliberating if it corresponds _at all_ with what he'd seen, and how much the Potion could conceivably help. He can't rule it out, and Severus has good instincts about these things, _very_ good, to be sure, but Filius also can't begin to explain what happened to Mr. Inglebee. It's all most confounding. "I suppose the first two... _jinxes_ were cast by seventh years, perhaps the difference is because the third caster was younger..."

Severus snorts. "So, too, was the last caster three years ago. He was only a fourth year at the time." Considering Potter, he feels confident adding, "Age and ability _won't_ be the issues here, I assure you. I believe you'll find everyone who performed it yesterday has directly or indirectly learnt it from Potter. He's the source of the problem, in this as in so many other things," he finishes a little lower, looking at the thin ring on his hand with an air of resignation. 

"But what on earth was the _hex_?" 'Hex' is practically whispered, Filius believes firmly in the staff policy to avoid referring to student attacks as anything other than 'jinxes', but, _Merlin_. The look of the boys... 

"Furnunculus Jinx." 

" _Never_!" 

Minerva had joined them midway through the exchange and can vouchsafe that Mr. Weasley had confirmed it. "I spoke to him this morning, Filius," she explains, "before we got the news..." She looks apologetically at Pomona, whose face falls at the recollection. "He was quite insistent that it was the Pimple Jinx."

" _Really_?" Filius' tone rises until it's nothing but a squeak. Fortunately _he_ doesn't mind squeaking. "With those _lamellae_?"

"I reported it to Poppy. She definitely shares your opinion," Minerva assures him. "So much so, I believe she was firmly resolved to hold off treating Mr. Inglebee until she'd had another opportunity to confer with you." Filius appears pacified, and Severus simply shakes his head at their stubborn scepticism. Thoroughly engaged with the matter at hand, no one spares a thought for the irony. 

"It seemed a little... Well, I'd never have guessed the _Furnunculus_ just from looking at it." Filius' disbelief is still abundantly clear. 

"Potter learnt the Jinx under insular conditions, in written form, and not by watching it actually performed," the Head of Slytherin begins to try to explain the results. 

"Why, Severus! You're suggesting Mr. Potter _reads_ in his spare time?" Minerva can't suppress a smirk. 

"A booklet of _Jinxes_? Why, _yes_ , I believe even _he_ could see his way clear to doing that." He looks at the boy sitting at the end of the nearby table and shakes his head. "He seems to have picked it up from a pamphlet he was given by the Weasleys, the twins as it happens, the source of so many _other_ problems." And he owes _that_ bit of knowledge to the Legilimency he performed after the duel three years ago. Useful thing after a duel. Certainly more useful than the Legilimens he'd done with Irma earlier anyway. "But he made two mistakes." 

It's Minerva's turn to snort, "Of course he did. Only the _two_?" 

Severus ignores her. "For one, he mispronounced 'Furnunculus', which is typical of never having heard the Jinx spoken correctly, ergo, a printed source." It never ceases to amaze him how presenting a piece of deductive reasoning now and again - and may it be ever so specious - keeps the vast majority of people from suspecting Legilimency as the source of much of his information. That in turn has undoubtedly staved off the wholesale study of Occlumency on the part of the faculty. 

Or perhaps not, he thinks with a glance towards Taylor. 

Many staff members aren't overly industrious, and probably wouldn't have made the effort either way. Merlin knows, they've had reason enough to suspect Albus of... _listening in_ for _decades_ now. 

"And for the other, the wand movement should be a straight line with a _round_ outcropping to the right, but instead of a bump, I believe he made it more of a sharp jag. Sloppiness, pure and simple. It doesn't even make sense for a _boil_ , but... Potter." Severus shrugs a bit dramatically. "Need I say more?" He waves his hand dismissively in the direction of the Moggies' table. 

"Those... modifications will have been repeated in the other iterations; the others mimicked what they'd seen. Malfoy's jag was sharper, and the mispronunciation exaggerated, but otherwise it remained essentially unchanged." 

"But what happened with the _third_ attempt? What went _wrong_?"

"Who cast it on your young Ravenclaw?" 

"Mr. Creevey, as I understand it," Filius looks expectantly at Minerva, and she nods in confirmation. He's learnt his lesson, and most certainly will _not_ be mentioning the man's _bondmate_ had told him so. Wild Thestrals...

"I'll wager it was the younger of the two," Severus replies. 

Minerva looks surprised but nods again. "As a matter of fact, it was."

"You're having us on!" Pomona cries. 

"You just guessed," Rolanda guesses. He shakes his head. "So how did you know?" She demands. 

"He's left handed."

Minerva groans, she can't believe it didn't occur to her. Filius begins to nod his head slowly in admiration. 

"Well observed, Severus. Well observed." But Pomona appears puzzled, and Filius explains, "It was the wand movement. For a left handed caster, he's suggesting the outcropping would have needed to be to the other side, mirrored, and Mr. Creevey failed to adjust for that. Quite reasonably, of course. He couldn't have known. The Jinx is hardly part of the curriculum." Filius is just the _embodiment_ of tolerance. Severus sometimes thinks Filius would make an honest effort to understand You-Know-Who given half a chance. 

"But how could you tell?" Charity asks. 

"The results," Severus shrugs. "If a jinx is simple enough that at least two people have committed it to memory after observing it only once... They heard it cast and so are pronouncing it 'correctly'. Or incorrectly as the case may be. Reproducing it _faithfully_ at any rate. So it's the wandstroke that's causing the problem. But similarly it can't have been complicated for them to learn it after seeing it just the once. And the Furnunculus _isn't_ particularly. 

"That left the issue of handedness as the most likely culprit for what went wrong in the third case." 

"Oddly that isn't much of a problem with plants. They don't particularly care which hand weeds them," Pomona chuffs in amusement. 

Rolanda chuckles in agreement, "Brooms couldn't give a toss either."

Pomona shakes her head, and then narrows her eyes at Severus suspiciously. "And you didn't just happen to know the movement for the Furnunculus is dependent on the dominant hand of the caster?"

"I didn't. I don't," Severus now shakes his head in turn. "It's as I told Charity. Given the facts, as a theory, I consider it _likely_."

Septima begins to explain, "Normally they'd use Arithmancy to predict that..." 

Severus laughs, his amusement sincere. " _Normally_ they'd perform it, have it go wrong, and _then_ figure it out. Just as we have now," he grins a little smugly. 

"Most Charmsmakers are right handed," Filius tries his hand again at the explanation, "as are most witches and wizards, it follows that most Charms are right handed. _Usually_ it doesn't matter. Every once in a _very_ rare while - most infrequently - it does, in the case of an irregular Spell, and a left handed practitioner needs to mirror the movement." 

"I find most often when human physiology is involved as the target of the spell," Severus adds.

Filius stares at him in stunned silence for a moment as he considers the small handful of examples he knows. "Oh, that _is_ well observed. _Very_ well observed. I think you may have something there," he finally acknowledges with a low whistle of appreciation. 

"Well, it's a mistake you can't afford to make when dealing with the Dark Arts," Severus allows generously, minimising his accomplishment. "It's important to know those things." A few eyes tick to Terrence, all sure that _he_ does _not_.

"I'd say give Inglebee the Potion and treat whatever symptoms are left after that. It's probably the best approach," Severus suggests. 

"Do you know, you may be on to something about human physiology, Severus. Handedness isn't a factor in a single Transfiguration of an inanimate object, but there are a couple of human Transfigurations where it plays a role... It's so rare, I hadn't thought of it." The Head of Gryffindor sounds impressed. 

"It makes a difference in the occasional potion as well, Minerva."

"Oh, really? I'd never encountered it," Filius asks, his intellectual curiosity piqued. 

"Probably not one in a thousand, Filius. It's even rarer in Potions than Charms. Less... wand waving as a whole, naturally. And it's not a factor in the brewing of a single potion we teach the students either. Merlin knows, the class is dangerous enough as it is. Frankly, I'd have been surprised had you heard of it." 

"The question now would be is it wiser to make the issues with the Furnunculus known or to keep it to ourselves..." Minerva looks at her House's table and considers the permutations. 

Severus smirks, "Worried about cack-handed casting?" His brow twitches provocatively. 

"Do you suppose a right handed person would have the same results if he or she mirrored the wandstroke?" Filius sounds genuinely intrigued. 

Minerva is correct, there are a _very_ few Transfigurations for which problems for the left handed are known. _One_ of those Transfigurations has a special place in school lore. It's rumoured, and carefully has never been substantiated - interference with Muggles is a very serious issue, after all - that Hagrid had... _gifted_ Potter's cousin with a pig's tail once several years ago. And of course as the Ministry had forbidden Hagrid to perform magic, the consequences of verifying the details of the incident could be devastating. But _that_ Transfiguration just so happens to be one of those Charms. 

Severus doesn't waste much time. He looks to his House's table and spots Goyle, the only one of the seventh year boys present. 'Needs must', as Albus would say. A reversed spiralling flick of Severus' wand has the boy leaping from his seat with a suitably appropriate squeal and sprouting something from his arse that looks like a cross between an _enormous_ snake's and a pig's tail. 

Sort of like the improbably corkscrewed end of an anaconda. 

It's _not_ a good look. 

It's also exceedingly heavy. 

Were the boy any less strong, it would have undoubtedly pulled him backwards from his seat before he could rise. As it is, he struggles to stand there, his knees going weak from the weight of the thing. 

The Slytherins stare at their Housemate and not a one notices that half the High Table gawps at Severus instead. In fact, the only one of the students who does is _Harry_ , because he'd immediately turned to look towards Hagrid. 

"Severus." Minerva scolds and performs the 'Finite Incantatem' that would normally end the Spell. It takes her _six_ more attempts before the monstrous appendage has vanished. And _that_ from a very experienced and highly competent Transfiguration Professor. Her frustration over that is slightly audible as she admonishes, "We _don't_ experiment on students."

Filius chuckles, "Really, Minerva, you might have asked first. Mr. Goyle may have wished to keep it..." and Pomona begins giggling something again about how Minerva feels about 'canoodling'. 

"Tell that to Albus," Severus grumbles at the Head of Gryffindor. 

Turning to the others with all his usual equanimity on display, he drawls, "I'd say we have our answer."

"Or you miscast." Taylor is apparently hard-wired to cavil. Severus just lifts an eyebrow, more in surprise at the incongruous _logic_ from the man than at the slight. 

Filius makes an effort to explain that would be improbable, but instead Severus calmly replies with a smirk, "As you say, or I miscast. Highly likely." He nods serenely. 

And then _doesn't_ try it a second time on Taylor. 

He's _proud_ of that. 

Truthfully, he shouldn't be. It had never been probable that he'd risk it. Severus is extremely disciplined, and doing so would have put him nicely in the frame for having cast the spell on Goyle as well. He's far from reckless. But he likes to at least imagine what might happen were he to yield to his baser instincts every now and again. 

Yes, he likes that a lot. 

Goyle, once again tailless, meanwhile is dashing from the room. That seems to be a trend with those boys today. The primary difference in Goyle's retreat being his hands struggling to cover the non-trivial hole in his trousers...

That sight earns Severus another disapproving look from Minerva, but her looks can't hold a candle to his. 

And conversation at the High Table stalls once more.  
  


When she hears of the Spell later, Daphne will grill poor Gregory relentlessly as she adds it to her list of simplified Human Transfigurations. Well, presumably simplified, for a student to carry it off out the blue like that without heaps of practice the rest of the school would surely have long since heard about. Obviously. 

Because what were the chances it had been done by a Professor?

* * *

  


Daphne and Ella take their places in the stands. Without even considering any other options, they'd headed automatically for the Slytherin bleachers, and are now seated amongst piles of their Housemates' things. It's only a quick practice, and they hadn't bothered to get changed; it's not like Harper couldn't cast Cleansing Charms for the lot when they're finished. The girls watch the six of them play Quidditch for a few minutes, and when the players briefly call a halt to the practice to discuss strategy, Ella shouts for Harper, waving her arms.

It doesn't do much good. 

Daphne pulls her wand and sends up a shower of sparks, rather predictably predominantly purple and, naturally, sparkly - they _are_ _sparks_ , after all - which gets the job done more elegantly. And with more panache. Daph's hardly the boldest witch in the House, not by a long shot, but she's utterly unapologetic about her likes and dislikes. 

Well, _almost_... 

When Harper turns his broom towards them and flies over, she pinks a bit once more and softly announces, "We brought lunch for everyone." She performs an Engorgio to increase the size of the food they've brought. "Ella said you'd asked."

"Oh," he looks a bit concerned, "I did, but at the time I didn't know the girls would be joining us." He indicates the others on the pitch with a jerk of his head. "I don't suppose there's any chance you've brought extras?"

Ella smiles, "Actually, Daph mentioned they should be practising as well, and we've got lunch for eight. We thought we'd make a picnic of it and watch you."

Daph casts Warming Charms on them both, pulls a sheet of parchment from her pile of books and soon has it Transfigured into a green and silver blanket that she spreads out over their laps. That it just so _happens_ to sport a border of snakes is almost certainly purely by coincidence, and not because she's demonstrating her talents once again in response to Ella's praise. 

Well, _probably_ not...

Fine. Honestly, it had felt nice, and so what if she's showing off just a little? 

The sight of it calls his slippers to mind, and Harper decides he'd like to join them. "Didn't you say you still needed to go to the library?" He asks Ella. 

"Yes, but we have a little time yet. We won't need very long together there."

"If you wouldn't mind waiting another fifteen minutes with your lunch, I could come and eat with you then." It gives them an easy out if they'd rather not. The girls look at each other for confirmation and nod, and he smiles, "Set a Tempus and then call us over." Ella's about to object that he hadn't exactly heard her before when he smirks, looking at Daph rather pointedly, "Those sparks should do the trick."

He flies off with a smile, leaving Daphne's cheeks more noticeably rosy in his wake. Reassuring her friend, Ella tells her, "Ignore him. _I_ thought they were pretty _and_ practical." Naturally, Daph only pinks more. "It doesn't always have to be strictly utilitarian, you know." 

Daphne is both a bright and skilled witch. Unfortunately she lives in a time when her personal preferences in magic aren't as likely to receive nearly the same attention as they would if she'd been fond of jinxes and hexes, say. 

Well, _other_ than the Fairy Wing Charm, that is.

* * *

  


Gregory comes bursting into the lav, thoroughly lacking decorum, but he's rarely all too fussed about that anyway. At the moment he's even less fussed than usual. Blithering something unintelligible about _the tail ruining his trousers_ , he turns his back to them now to ask how bad the tear is. 

Theo might have been more considerate about it, but Draco beats him to the punch. "Your arse is completely hanging out." It doesn't leave much to the imagination. 

Gregory swallows. He's just run through the Great Hall like that. 

The only upside is his arse is a marvel to behold. Gone is the pudge of his youth, those are some rock solid glutes he's worked long and hard to produce, and he's not overly ashamed of having them on view. 

Still... Perhaps he should have mended his trousers first before streaking through the Hall. Well, that's not really his strong suit. He been wondering lately what the devil is, he must be good at _something_ , but Mending Charms certainly aren't it. Maybe he should have asked one of the girls. And then he recalls that pretty much no one likes them just now, and that's probably what got him into this mess. This was just like Vince's wings...

Covering his backside with his hands - they're more mitts than hands - just to check the facts, he asks again, "And now? Can you see much now?" 

Theo hurries to answer before Draco, because he's decided the world isn't improved any by _his_ answers. "Hardly anything at all," he lies believably, scoring a look of disbelief from Draco for his pains, but he's satisfied with his effort. Well, a great deal less was visible this way, and if Gregory had made a mad dash here, as his entrance suggests, then it's doubtful anyone got to see much. 

Unexpectedly, Gregory looks almost disappointed by the response, much to Draco's amusement, and Theo determines to just give up. He can't win for trying today. 

"Say, um, would either of you mind..." Gregory looks sheepish, all helpless lamb - which is always disconcerting in someone of his physique, because he could probably flatten either of them in an instant - but both of his roommates take his meaning. Draco twitches his wand first, and soon has a Reparo mending Gregory's pants and then his trousers. The fact he, without asking, also applies a Cleansing Charm to Goyle and a Cleaning Charm to the clothing - just in case - reveals rather a lot about some of his experiences at the Manor, but as the other two share them, albeit to a much lesser extent, no one thinks to note it. 

"Thanks," Gregory tells him, quite sincerely. 

"What happened?" Theo asks. If he hadn't, Draco would have. With Theo, the enquiry comes with a healthy portion of concern, on Draco's part, the question would have been motivated more by information gathering. Threat assessment is crucial, vital to their success at school. Increasingly, Draco's beginning to suspect that it isn't just a question of success anymore. 

This might be about _survival_. 

Not that any of that makes much of a difference in a two word question, but Theo prefers being safe to sorry. Merlin knows how Draco would have phrased it. 

Gregory tells them about the strange tail he'd suddenly sported at lunch. He can't do much more than describe it (truthfully, he doesn't even do a great job at that; that's better left to the witnesses); he hasn't a clue why it happened. Both listeners absorb that with sinking feelings. 

Merlin. 

First Vince. 

Now _this_. 

There's no way this ends well for them. 

Draco's a little worried about Theo. His friend doesn't even have the sense to make it clear to the rest of the House he has nothing to do with this. If he were smart, he'd distance himself from them. 

But Draco can't help noticing no one else came to check on the boy. 

He may not think much of himself at the moment, but he's not all that impressed with his Housemates just now either. 

Theo had deserved better. 

Draco will need to give it some thought, see if there's anything he can do to improve Theo's standing. Not that _he's_ in much of a position to do so... No, the easiest way is probably to convince Theo to cut himself some slack and stand up for himself. 

And who knows. If Draco does his job well enough, maybe he can bootstrap his way out of this mess on Theo's coattails.  
  


Gregory disappears into a stall to try to get an impression of any damage the tail may have caused to his skin or tissues. He's happy to provide them with running commentary on various muscle groups that might have been affected. 

To be honest, the other two don't particularly care. 

Experience shows the spells, once done, usually heal nicely. Only once in a rare while do they go wrong and cause scarring, usually because there was a dark component involved. That's fairly unlikely for something applied in the Great Hall like that with all of staff watching. Gregory seemed certain the Professors had sorted the matter for him. It was gone almost as quickly as it appeared. 

There doesn't seem to be any lasting damage, and with that, Draco and Theo's interest in the matter is more or less exhausted. As much to escape Gregory's lecture on the physiology of arses - seriously? - as from any real desire to make it to Runes early, they tell their roommate they need to get going and beat a hasty retreat. 

From the sound of it as the door swings to behind them, it hasn't even slowed Gregory's anatomy lesson overmuch. 

No, waiting outside Professor Babbling's locked classroom is clearly preferable, bless his fitness obsessed heart.

* * *

  


"Say, Perfesser..." Hagrid begins tentatively when he thinks no one else is listening. Severus turns to look at him. It's far from encouraging, but nowhere near as derisive as he frequently is, and frankly Hagrid is all but inured to that. "Are ye... are ye _angry_ at the boys fer some reason?"

It's unusually astute, and leaves Severus blinking for a moment in silence. There are a variety of responses, and he's trying to decide what's best. He finally settles on a version of the truth. Far closer to the truth than he'd normally be inclined to, but he senses... He feels sure Hagrid will respond to it in a favourable fashion. So there it is. 

"You weren't the only one to take objection to the news of my bonding." His voice is low as he answers, and he manages to speak without a note of censure, but Hagrid blushes all the same. "And _I_ found their behaviour towards my bondmate even more... _objectionable_. Perhaps it's fair to say I'm making sure that's... felt."

Hagrid recognises the truth when he hears it, even a twisted version of it. He looks at the Potions Master appraisingly, feeling even guiltier for his attack on the man Monday. He thinks again about how 'ermione had marched right up to him and demanded he apologise to her bondmate. She certainly didn't hesitate to stand up for him. He has to wonder that she's still able after whatever she'd been through, and with a glance at the Gryffindor table, he's wondering who stands up for her... But he's sure now, whatever else, the _Perfesser_ means the little moppet no harm. That eases his mind some aught. 

Their exchange was a quiet one, but not so soft that Minerva didn't pick up on it. She's watching Severus with a thoughtful look now, too, trying to decide how much of the motivation is for his cover, his pride, or perhaps genuinely in the interests of his bondmate. 

Severus begins to feel uncomfortable under their combined gazes, although he attributes it mostly to Hagrid. In response, he redirects the half-giant's attention to certain deficits he'd noticed in Crabbe's and Goyle's Care of Magical Creatures work. Pulling his notes on the matter from his pocket, he rattles off a few points, and Hagrid is all too happy to take the pointers. The notion the Slytherins could have been giving 'ermione a difficult time and this might be a way to pay them back for it... Why it just sweetens the pot. 

This keeps them occupied for a short while until the chatter at the High Table again lapses into an awkward silence. Some are beginning to wonder if things will ever return to normal. Or if Severus couldn't perhaps find some errand to run...

* * *

  


Albus is in the library when Miss Granger arrives. 

He's in the Restricted Section trying to find books on Vows, which seem in unusually thin supply, strangely, and ones that might offer him answers on structuring _additional_ Vows _after_ a bonding. As that topic by and large may be presumed to be a subset of the books on bonds, Severus hadn't shown any interest in them, and Albus is happy to discover _those_ texts, at least, seem to be present and accounted for. He's not entirely certain to what extent the answer to this problem might be a matter of _wizarding_ or the _natural_ magical law, a difference that often poses interesting fodder for debate, and isn't nearly as well documented as one might expect. Certainly not as much as one might _hope_. The first is what the Ministry of Magic or the International Confederation of Wizards _permits_ , although both organisations much prefer to blur the lines between their decisions and the second, which are the limits of what one is _able_ to do with magic. 

Sometimes the latter holds more promise. Just because no one to date has determined _how_ to do a thing doesn't mean it _can't_ be done. 

Merlin knows, solving what was heretofore unsolvable is often easier than changing human law. In this the wizarding world is no different to the Muggle one.  
  


Albus is eager to go unnoticed by Miss Granger. He has no desire to speak to her about any of the matters he's researching, not until he has answers, or at the least, suggestions. Unfortunately, she seems intent on camping in front of the Restricted Section, and as he watches her evidently settling in, he resigns himself to using a Notice-Me-Not and a Disillusionment to sneak past her. It strikes him as undignified (he hardly knows the meaning of the word), but he left dignity behind long ago, he's sure. 

As recently as sixteen months ago, Severus would have happily disabused him of those notions, but with some regularity, Albus has been playing the 'dying' Exploding Snap card quite well ever since. But seriously, there's been _nothing_ the least bit dignified about the man's wardrobe since Severus has known him. 

Albus lifts the spells shortly before he reaches Irma's desk, first the Disillusionment and then the Notice-Me-Not, so he doesn't appear out of thin air, but simply strikes Irma as having gone overlooked. As if _that_ were possible in his coruscating robes of powder blue. 

A side effect of the Notice-Me-Not he employed is that no one questions that all too closely. He's an old hand at that.  
  


Irma becomes nervous as Albus approaches. He's coming from the direction the Granger bint had gone, and Irma is perfectly aware that her banning the girl from the Restricted Section was questionable at best. She can't for a moment imagine the girl wouldn't have run crying to the Headmaster about it with him so easily in reach. 

Hermione, for her part, had been eager to sneak past the Librarian (although she wasn't nearly as successful as she'd have liked), still quite worried about any aftermath to yesterday's Confunding, and is intent on keeping the lowest imaginable profile at her table. She will _not_ risk getting banned from the entire library, thank you very much. 

Goodness, she'd probably chance Obliviating Madam Pince, if it ever came to that. 

Hermione's returned to leafing through back issues of the Prophet to see if any of the other hits Luna's Inquiro Searching Charm has detected for 'Prince' are relevant. Hermione's gone back another decade and a half further to look. She knows when Eileen had been a student, after all, and based on that she can estimate when she was born. She's determined to find _her_ birth announcement, and perhaps something about the family that way. 

Unfortunately, there _is none_. She's beginning to suspect these papers will be no more fruitful than the articles yesterday had been.  
  


Irma's behaviour is noticeably strained as she checks out Albus' books for him. It's sufficient that he dips into her thoughts without a second of his own. He's easily twice as bad about that as Severus is, but then he's been doing it a great deal longer, and listening with his mind is almost as natural as listening with his ears these days. 

He's rewarded for his efforts with the information that Irma has banned Miss Granger from the Restricted Section, and worries she'll be reprimanded for it. Well not from him. Not today. He has problems of his own to solve first, and he has no desire to try racing Miss Granger to the solution. 

And then he gets what he probably deserves for taking a shufti, which is a look at a few pointed thoughts as to _his_ _acumen_ if he's researching bonds _after_ reintroducing the idea, and with no less than _three couples_ at that. Yes, carrying out experiments on students - and staff, too, for the sake of accuracy - is met with some suitably disparaging thoughts. 

Hmm. 

Well.

She's not exactly _wrong_ , a fact that makes the situation all the more irksome...

They're locked there staring at one another for a moment, each chasing their thoughts when Irma, looking over his shoulder, suddenly flinches. Albus turns to follow her gaze and sees Miss Granger appear, crossing to the area where they keep the back issues of the Daily Prophet. And then he responds reflexively by putting up his Notice-Me-Not. 

It's only when Miss Granger returns in the direction of her seat and he reappears that he realises Irma was staring at him the whole time. Notice-Me-Nots simply aren't perfect, and it's always a risk suddenly disappearing - or _reappearing_ , for that matter - when people are watching. She has a broad smirk on her face, there's something a touch ruthless about it, and although she has misunderstood his reason for hiding from Miss Granger, the tone of her thoughts is close enough. 

Bugger. 

Irma visibly relaxes in front of him, no longer concerned with being rebuked for banning the seventh year. On the contrary, the Librarian seems to feel vindicated in her actions somehow, as though that were related, which it's patently _not_ , and decides to keep on her present course. At the least, as she no longer fears censure, she has no qualms about carrying on. 

Albus gives her a penetrating look as she finishes with his books and simply tells her, "I'm quite sure you'll know when the time comes to reverse course." It echoes her thoughts enough to make her start, which is no coincidence. Albus may be exacting a spot of revenge for some of her less kind thoughts. Given he probably should never have been privy to them, that might not be entirely fair. 

Of course, he's never been overly concerned with fairness. 

He takes his books and waiting until Irma has shifted her focus elsewhere puts them under a Notice-Me-Not and then shrinks the lot. Irma can be... difficult when it comes to her printed charges; there's no point antagonising the witch. 

Well... _more so_.

* * *

  


Severus again finds himself putting an end to the silence, but surely only because _this_ time there's something he wishes to know. "Minerva, you mentioned some 'news'?"

"Oh, of course, you weren't at breakfast, and Miss Jones isn't one of your Potions students, so you won't have heard." She fills him and many of the other teachers who hadn't been privy to the Heads' of House talk with Albus this morning in on the situation with the seventh year Muggle-born. But the news has clearly gotten around, though, as Sarah Sapworthy and the Music instructor had already briefed a number of their colleagues. Amusingly, their spy seems amongst those _least_ well informed of the developments. 

He doesn't seem to find it funny. 

On the contrary, it seems to be giving him a lot to think about, and it suddenly strikes Minerva as to why that might be. Staff, Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley and apparently Miss Weasley are the only ones aware that _Miss Granger_ , _Madam Snape_ was attacked after all. A very few students know there had _been_ an attack, but no more than that. She could see how that might prove... useful. 

Severus will need to see how this can be played to their advantage, but he imagines it will remedy the immediate issues with Nott. Or if perhaps not adequate to the task of solving them, it should at least shift the problem. That should be... sufficient. 

He shakes himself out of his reverie and asks the other Heads of House, "Have you spoken to your Muggle-born witches about the... inadvisability of a bonding?" They're kind enough not to make any unfortunate remarks in response to that, although it doubtlessly helps that Terrence is busy talking to Rolanda. 

Filius squeaks up again, "I spoke to sixth year Latisha Randle. She's too young still, of course, but she's the only Muggle-born witch in my House seeing a pure-blood." Severus raises a brow at that, and Filius amends the statement, "Or half-blood, for that matter."

"That may not be the only issue," Severus protests. 

"Well, surely no one would bond someone they weren't involved with," Filius returns. Severus' brow shoots up again, and this time it seems intent on reaching his hairline. "Oh, I don't mean to insinuate anything, Severus. Of _course_ not." Severus could swear Pomona is once again giggling something about 'canoodling'. He wonders if there's a spell for that. _Besides_ an Obliviate, that is. Perhaps he could cast a Taboo on the word... He's not sure what Pomona is on about, but he has enough experience with his colleagues to suspect he wouldn't like the answer. Not in the least. 

"But you must admit your circumstances are highly unusual. I don't think we have to worry they'll be duplicated anytime soon." 

"Let us hope not," he agrees dryly. 

Minerva's Muggle-borns, those who are remotely of age, are already bonded, she informs them with a pinched look about her. No one else is close. 

Pomona reports that she had spoken to Miss Jones, "And, well, you see what came of it... If anything I seem to have scared her further."

Conversation again comes to a standstill. 

Pomona is back to appearing crestfallen, and Filius makes a renewed effort to try to keep things going. He cheerily tells Severus, "Do you know, I had the oddest talk with Miss Devi yesterday. I think she would have made an excellent Slytherin." Minerva sputters, and Filius offers an apologetic, "So sorry, my dear," and then proceeds to tell them how the young woman had negotiated for him to teach her the Counter for her brother's Mouse Tail Charm in exchange for her book. 

"Filius, you _can't_ mean to keep her book..." Pomona chides, tutting her objection. Filius hides his grin. He _knew_ that would take Pomona's mind off Miss Jones.

"Before she does anything else even _more_ careless with it, I most certainly can. But never fear, my dear lady, she can have it back at any time. I think of it as a loan. It's fascinating stuff really. A very interesting read."

Poppy arrives, throwing herself gracelessly into an available seat with a heavy sigh of, "Circe."

"Oh, Poppy, I think I have good news for you. Severus probably solved the issue with Mr. Inglebee," Filius informs her cheerfully. 

Poppy doesn't look especially relieved. No, instead she snorts in a most unladylike fashion, "That's the _least_ he can do." She swivels to face Severus, "Do you know I've had my wand busy most of the morning trying to bring Mr. Crabbe's ears to a halt."

"You say that as if _I_ were the one to have hexed him." Severus answers rather deliberately with a smirk, Filius winces, and Severus corrects, "I meant 'jinxed', of course." As long as it's just the staff, he can't resist baiting Filius from time to time. "You'll forgive me, Poppy, but his _ears_ were your priority?"

"Oh, I scarcely knew where to begin." She waves a hand about as if to illustrate that. "His wings definitely weren't going anywhere. Well, beyond back and forth, that is." 

" _Wings_?" Filius asks. A suspicious mind might suspect _hopefully_. 

" _Wings_ ," Poppy confirms. "Purple, sparkly, flashy things." That draws several curious looks, and she regales the table with tales of the hexes... _jinxes_ employed. All agree they've never heard of the Fairy Wing Charm before. (A fair few will be stopping by the Infirmary to see it. Purely to satisfy their academic curiosity, it should go without saying.) When asked, Poppy admits she took a picture of it. "That's the sort of thing that requires documenting." 

Clearly. 

More than one of her colleagues will be requesting a copy. It unquestionably helps that Mr. Crabbe isn't well liked. 

"The skin on his back is sorted, as are his lacerations, allergies and nose. His hair and nails are stuck that way, I'm afraid. At least until they grow out. But there's always a glamour or a Nail Polish or Hair Colour Charm, if he tires of the look before then."

"I imagine he's... tired of them already," Severus allows wryly. "Nevertheless, it would surprise me, greatly, were he to trouble himself so far as to learn one of the Charms for that purpose."

"Well, perhaps one of his Housemates will help him with that. I find the girls tend to know those Charms fairly well," Septima comments. 

Severus merely nods. "Possibly." Truthfully, it would surprise him _even more_ if one of them were willing to help Crabbe after what he'd observed this morning in his House. Poppy is entirely of his opinion, but not in the least inclined to share what she knows of Friday evening's events. 

"Thank you, by the way, Severus, for the flowers yesterday. They're absolutely lovely," Poppy gushes, well aware the other faculty members are listening. He deserves a bit of praise and the attendant recognition for his actions from his peers. 

Severus, for his part, has a pretty good idea what she's up to, but recognises she avoided saying anything in front of students, which he appreciates. He nods, but doesn't permit her to draw him into conversation about them.

Not that it stops her from trying. 

Still, Poppy's ease with him proves contagious, and the others now find themselves finally beginning to relax. No longer as worried about saying the wrong thing or his possible response, normal chatter resumes. 

"Did you see that Barry the roofer with vertigo died?" Septima asks, referring to an article in this morning's Daily Prophet. 

Sybill is quick to reply, "I saw that coming."

Minerva scoffs, " _Everyone_ saw that coming."

"How did he do it anyway? Roofing? With his condition?" Sarah asks.

The answers come almost as one.  
"Charms to lift the materials. Magic would permit him to do most of the work from the ground," Filius suggests.  
"I'm sure there's a Potion," Rolanda answers. "There _always_ is," she grins mischievously at Severus, who refuses to rise to her bait.  
"Treatment from a certified Mediwitch," Poppy replies with confidence.  
"Medicinal herbs," Pomona offers. Naturally. 

Filius snorts into his cup. 

"And here I'd have thought that more likely to _contribute_ to a fall..." Severus drawls, finally allowing himself to be drawn in. 

"I _meant_ Brugmansia. Extracting the Scopolamine for vertigo," Pomona. 

"Let's hope that's all he was using it for," mutters Severus. The events of the past several days have severely coloured his thinking. 

Hagrid, meanwhile tells Minerva he's going to try following Severus' advice and take a page from her book, assigning detentions to the boys who hadn't done his assigned homework. "The Perfesser says they've got some kin' er wager goin'." Severus doesn't smirk, he's better than that, but his ears prick up. That hadn't taken long, and Hagrid has already twisted his words beyond recognition. 

Minerva twists her head, swivelling to look from Hagrid to Severus, a bit taken aback that Severus - of all their colleagues - should be offering Hagrid advice on managing his students. That's somewhat unfair, of course, as he's always been fairly quick to inform others they're... too lax. On the other hand, he isn't given to repeating himself that often, and Hagrid has proven impervious to that suggestion for _years_ now, inclined to make excuses for the students that they themselves would never have been bold enough to proffer. 

His 'Hippogriff ate their homework' was a perennial classic. 

"I imagine I came across an instance of that just yesterday. Mr. Malfoy arrived in my classroom, unprepared, suggesting he'd _done_ the work but claiming to have simply _misplaced_ it. Normally I'd discount that entirely, but I had wondered... 

"He's done that a grand total of twice in all the years prior, both times last year, and both times he was rewarded for the insufficient effort with detention. I rather thought I had cured him of it, he'd gotten it out of his system, and there we were yesterday morning all over again."

Clearly considering the incident, she turns to face Severus squarely. Speaking more slowly, she tries to choose her words with care. "I assumed he had hit a rough patch last year. The situation with his family..." She needn't say more. The Prophet had kept everyone only too well informed of that. Well, until it hadn't, but the pertinent points were known. Lucius, now a convicted Death Eater, had landed in Azkaban. Minerva, however, hasn't much in the way of an Exploding Snap face, and she begins to look concerned, "It had... nothing to do with what happened this weekend, did it?"

A few around them tense, all very well aware there had been an attack on Miss Granger - _last weekend_ \- and that phrase was _guaranteed_ to make at least some of them wonder. Severus silently curses her lack of circumspection. But he's an old hand at this and looking her straight in the eye, he replies, "I can promise you he didn't fail to do his homework because of _anything_ that took place this weekend, despite that terrible tumble down the Great Staircase and the plethora of resultant injuries, impressively enough." 

_That_ seems like a perfectly reasonable explanation for what Minerva must have meant - oh, of course, his horrific fall - and just like that, they stop wondering. 

Pomona's reaction is practically a given. She's quick to reproach Minerva for giving the boy detention for a missing assignment after he'd injured himself so badly. Hagrid, amusingly, comes to her defence. "But the Perfesser said we should." 

Although that's perfectly true, Minerva had no way of knowing it at the time. Slightly amused by that fact, she thanks their Groundskeeper for his efforts just the same.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lauren, you're lovely. Here's something to read with dinner. ❤️ 
> 
> Sorry guys, wandered off to play with contacts. That went about as well as things usually do.


	100. 11 12m Wednesday - Lunch at the Castle 3

**Severus (HoS, Potions), Hermione 7G (Prefect, Supreme Swot)**

**Staff:**  
Albus Dumbledore (Headmaster), Professor Minerva McGonagall (HoG, Transfiguration), Professor Filius Flitwick (HoR, Charms), Poppy Pomfrey (Mediwitch extraordinaire), Professor Sybill Trelawney (Divination; Scarves, Tealeaves, Patchouli, oh my!), Professor Sarah Sapworthy (Xylomancy, Twigs!), Professor Bathsheda Babbling (Ancient Runes), Argus Filch (Squib 'Care'taker), Nurse Wanda Wainscott (chatty)

**Slytherins:**  
Draco 7S (Prefect, Team Captain, Seeker, Swot), Theo Nott 7S (Swottiest, Nervous Wreck), Vincent 'Vince' Crabbe 7S (Beater, Winged Wonder), Gregory Goyle 7S (Beater), Daphne Greengrass 7S (Sparkly! Fwoopers!), Harper Hutchinson 6S (Prefect, Chaser, flash Robe Model), Ella Wilkins 6S (Prefect), Hestia Carrow 6S (Chaser, sporty twin), Róisín Rosier 6S, Hunter Hutchinson 4S (Imp)

**Gryffindors:**  
Ron Weasley 7G (Prefect, Keeper (only in the Quidditch sense)), Dennis Creevey 4G (almost as bad as Colin) 

**Ravenclaws:**  
Padma Patil 7R (Head Girl), Mandy Brocklehurst 7R (musical), Darius Inglebee 4R (Reserve Chaser, impatient Patient)

**Hufflepuffs:**  
Wayne Hopkins 7H, Oliver Rivers 7H, Justin Finch-Fletchley 7H (D.A.), Newton Kurz 4H (Dennis' and Hunter's recently hexed potions-challenged friend)

**Others:**  
The Bloody Baron (Slytherin House Ghost), Sunny (the Snapes' house elf), Portrait Headmaster Phineas Black

**Mentioned briefly:** **Slytherins:** Blaise Zabini 7S (Keeper), Aaron Avery 6S (Reserve Chaser), Sheldon Shafiq 6S (Reserve Beater, and charm on legs), Valerie 'Val' Vaisey 6S (Chaser), **Gryffindors:** Harry 7G (Team Captain, Seeker, the Boy-Who-Lived-to-Annoy-Severus), **Ravenclaws:** Michael Corner 7R, Terry Boot 7R, Morag MacDougal 7R (lippy Muggle-born with _that_ lippy), Luna Lovegood 6R, **Hufflepuffs:** Megan Jones, **Others:** Slinky (the Slytherin House's chief house elf), Portrait Temperance Mathew (Healer and School Governor), Boadicea Waterhouse (turn of the century Portraitist), Swaine Swoopstikes (Potions Master, Professor and Entomologist, past HoS)

* * *

* * *

  
**Previously:**  
Last chapter's Previouslies. 

Under the influence of the potion the Slytherin boys had administered, Hermione has some... uncomfortable thoughts about centaurs thanks to the portrait in Minerva's classroom. 029 When she returns there with Severus to punish Draco, he misinterprets her reaction and removes the portrait, which she appreciates. 054 It occurs to him that they hadn't fetched help when she was attacked 055, and he begins to treat the painting more that a little rudely. Oh, and with turpentine. 073

Ernie Macmillan and three of the seventh year Ravenclaws (Terry Boot, Michael Corner and Morag MacDougal) make some highly inappropriate comments about Hermione and Severus and their bonding which leads to a duel with Theo, Draco and Blaise after Tuesday's Potions lesson. Severus catches them at it and takes fifteen points a nose from the Turkeys for duelling in the hallways. 071

* * *

  


Harper and Hestia fly over to join the girls in the stands; Val remains on the pitch with the reserve players, putting them through drills. Harper had been playing Keeper so they could get some realistic practice in, and this way Aaron could work on his Chasing skills. Unfortunately, it's not nearly as likely that one of the sixth year Chasers will be unable to play in the upcoming match as it is that Blaise will be unfit to Keep. Which is more than a little worrisome. It would mean Harper would have to fill in for him and Aaron would take over Harper's usual position, and should compromise their team on _two_ fronts. 

Harper thinks he'll need to speak to Draco about this, and he probably needs to get in a _lot_ more practice Keeping. This lunchtime session is shaping up to be as much about _him_ as it is the reserve teammates. Draco will naturally be easier to convince when in the days to come, thanks to Slinky's liberal application of the Insalacious Saltpeter, Blaise becomes measurably less... sharp. As he's the only one of the boys present at practice this afternoon to have actually eaten much of his lunch, the difference in his Quidditch game will already be noticeable and stand out by contrast. 

Daphne casts the warming Charms on her classmates as they sit down next to them and magically expands the blanket covering their laps as Ella begins passing out the lunches. She and Hestia soon fall into a discussion of their last Charms assignment. Harper, stealing a glance at his classmates to make sure they're occupied, Summons his book bag and, a bit awkwardly, begins to root through the pile. Somewhat fumblingly, so unusual for the otherwise athletic and highly coordinated young man, he hands Daph a sheet of parchment. The real stuff, and not some of his Geminioed supplies. Something that's likely to _last_. 

Well, if she doesn't _bin_ it first. 

"Here, I, um, I drew this for you." He shrugs uneasily, shifting where he sits, "I just wanted to say thanks for the slippers." 

She unrolls the parchment and it's a drawing of her. Her in her uniform with _gigantic fairy wings_. She's not at all sure how he did it, but the wings _sparkle_. They're positively _twinkly_ , shifting and changing, and she's... She's _rapt_. She cries out in glee. Any hopes he'd had of Ella and Hestia not noticing fly across the pitch and just keep going. 

"What's that?" Hestia asks, suddenly with nothing better to do. 

Ella, sharper by far, targets the obvious, "And _when_ did you draw it?" She's smirking, and Harper begins fidgeting more. It _had_ to have been sometime this morning.

"During class," he admits, and Hestia laughs. 

"That's our Prefect for you. Leading with good example."

"Hey, if you didn't notice me doing it, then it's not like I disrupted class." He arches his brow at her and does his best to look superior. 

He _almost_ pulls it off. 

"Thank you _so_ much! It's absolutely _beautiful_!" Daph coos, because of course she does, breaking the tension. Sure, if he'd had his druthers, he'd have preferred cooing to other possible responses. Just maybe not with Ella and Hestia looking on to tease. Because they definitely will later. It's like a universal constant or something. 

_Witches_. 

Still, he's relieved. He'd sort of hoped Daphne would take the drawing in the spirit it was meant. He'd really appreciated the work she did on his slippers, and this was pretty much the only way he could think to show it. That's one major disadvantage to her being a year ahead of him; he'd been at a bit of a loss what he could do for her that she couldn't do better for herself. With the possible exception of Cleansing Charms, that is, which seems frankly insulting, never mind _unnecessary_. Well, that and hexes, obviously, but that's hardly useful here. But he draws well, he's been doing so for years, and he'd quietly sketched the picture of her over the course of the morning. It helps that drawing doesn't have to be an expensive hobby if he doesn't use fancy inks, brushes or parchment. His regular quill does the job rather nicely for his preferred style. He thinks he managed to capture her excitement from when she first saw the things flapping on Vince's back this morning. 

She thinks so, too, and doesn't mince words raving about it. 

Hmm. 

Ella will give him no peace about that, that's for sure. 

Eventually the other girls return to their Charms discussion, and Daph's praise, too, turns more conversational. "How on earth did you make them sparkle like that?" She's just curious this time and not pursuing the information to use it herself. She has a good eye, and can create a decent pattern when she uses magic, but she's certain she couldn't draw something manually like that to save her life. (Not that one generally needs to, obviously, but still...)

"Charm," he shrugs. 

"I imagine you know a lot of them then," she smiles. He nods a little stiffly. "Because I can't see that being one of the more useful ones to know," she laughs. She wrinkles her nose in amusement, clearly teasing, but it's not the same sort of thing he'll take from Ella and Hestia. This is... nicer. "Or is there much call for sparkly things in your work?" There's something impish about the question that he doesn't dislike. Not at all. 

Smart witch, Daph. She put that together quickly. He has to admit there is not. In fact, he'd had to consult one of his books in order to do it. With the exception of Dumblebore's robes (and how often would he wish to draw _those_?), there really aren't a lot of things that would need that effect. But the Charm is cheaper, clearly, than magical inks. And it hadn't taken him long to learn. And it _had_ completed the drawing nicely. 

Her fingers resting on those sparkling wings, stroking them softly, she looks at him a bit shyly and begins to ask, "I don't suppose..."

He smiles at her kindly, but has to disappoint her there like everyone else. "Daph, if I did, I'd teach it to you," he answers the unasked question, reading her thoughts easily enough. 

She surprises him with a bit of a blush and an even shyer smile, "I'd sort of hoped you would." Unfortunately, he's a teenage boy and doesn't quite make sense of that; he just sits there wondering why she seems a little relieved when she comes up empty. 

She traces her fingers gently, appreciatively along the curves of the wings he's drawn. "It's really very good," she says, probably for the seventh time, and he shrugs once more. It's weird. He's somewhat uncomfortable with the praise, and yet simultaneously secretly rather pleased. His ambivalence bewilders him. "Have you ever thought about pursuing it? Drawing? As a career?" Ella's words have stuck with her. 

Harper shakes his head, a little disparagingly, "You can't make any money with it." 

She can point to any number of portraits hanging around the castle that would seem to prove the opposite, although her argument about the age of the tapestries is similarly true of the portraits. It's not quite as bad there, there's still call for portraits of people from the present day, but still... _Most_ of the works surrounding them day in and out are very old. 

More crucially, she wouldn't dream of pushing him into a discussion of money. 

It's a sore spot for him, and unusual enough that he mentioned it of his own accord. She knows it's a sign of trust, that she won't twist the knife. 

That, or that he takes her for harmless as much of the rest of the House does. 

She's honestly not sure. 

There's a difference between _kind_ and _harmless_ , though, and it bothers her sometimes that her Housemates frequently assume she just isn't _able_ to harm. 

That's not it at all. 

She _chooses_ not to. 

It's a pity that experience has taught her to question that. It would have been better for both of them if she could have taken _that_ in the spirit it was meant as well.  
  


Val comes over to join them and Daph and Ella collect their things soon after to head to the library. Daph shows Harper which Finite Incantatem to use to return the blanket to it's original parchment state when they're finished with lunch. He'll perform the Spell when they're about to leave for class. That he then finds himself with an extra piece of quality parchment in hand when he's done the Charm may or may not be coincidence. 

But he's not one to waste, and he carefully puts it with his things.

* * *

  


At some point it had crossed Minerva's mind that the portrait that used to hang in her classroom portrayed a number of subjects who could perhaps supply her with information as to the identities of poor Miss Granger's attackers. She'd like to take a crack at interrogating the centaurs. This is her first chance to speak to Severus about it since that realisation, and she means to take advantage of it. She knows he believes she needs to be kept out of the loop as to what happened, that he seems certain Albus feels that's necessary. Albus, typically, hasn't said anything one way or another, not taking a stand. But perhaps most revealingly, he hasn't filled her in on what happened either. 

In light of that, Severus may well be correct once again, which is a source of annoyance for a variety of reasons. 

She needs to approach this delicately then, or the Potions Master is likely to deny her request for access to the portrait outright. 

"I say, Severus, I was wondering where the portrait from my classroom went. You needn't worry," she rushes to allay any concerns before he can object. "Naturally I wouldn't dream of hanging it there again - I agree with your actions in removing it completely - but I was hoping I might have it back?" There's a pause where he doesn't nibble and she feels pressed to supply a reason. "I had thought I might hang it in my quarters..."

Minerva has always been terribly transparent, which was part of the reason she won't be learning a great many of the details about what had taken place Friday, or many of the other things to which _he's_ privy and she is _not_. He can't help being amused that she, of all people, is trying to 'out Slytherin' _him_ , of all people, but in all seriousness, he turns to her, flicks up a Muffliato, and quietly tells her that those centaurs had watched _five men_ administer _that_ potion to his bondmate and _hadn't sent for help_. 

"You can't have it back." 

His tone is even, but somehow all the more ominous because of it. 

It sounds incredibly final, and she sits there blinking a bit owlishly. Honestly, she can't think of a reasonable objection to what he says. She simply hadn't thought of it in that light. 

And she finds it very discomfiting to do so now.

"I've sorted them... appropriately," he further assures her. Technically he _hasn't_ , but he _will_. Over time. He wants to draw it out, to savour it, to allow them to marinate in fear. He sees no point in clarifying that to his colleague. 

Minerva flinches visibly at the thought, mostly of what they'd done, and misunderstanding her reaction, with some annoyance Severus now points out, "It isn't the same as were they sentient beings, Minerva. And in the face of their dereliction of duty, and craven desire to _watch_..." 

Minerva flinches even more. "No, of course, Severus, you're absolutely correct. I don't need it back."

When she doesn't say anything further, he draws his wand and puts an end to the spell. It's a visual cue that this particular conversation is ended as far as he's concerned, and truthfully, she has no desire to pursue it further. She's quite sure Severus dealt with the centaurs more... appropriately, as he put it, than she ever could have. 

She observes him now and once again feels a bit of relief he would neither expect nor understand were he aware of it. For all his antisocial posturing, she is _positive_ no one else on staff would have championed Miss Granger's... _Madam Snape's_ honour on that score with the ferocity she feels certain he brought to bear on the portrait. 

It's not love. 

Merlin, it's not even a _relationship_. 

But for something that can't be undone like their bond, that _concern_ on his part is far from a bad thing. 

Easily a third of Slytherin still seems to... prefer arranged marriages. Or at least to favour them anyway. Possibly even a greater percentage. It's frankly hard to tell from the outside, if one's not aware of the details. By and large, it's fair to say the House is reticent as a whole, and the parties tend to be physically non-demonstrative, rendering it nearly impossible to tell an arranged relationship from a... naturally occurring one. Minerva's not altogether certain she should see the Snapes' bonding as so very dissimilar. It's probably because it affects one of _her_ students that she looks upon it differently. 

But then, they're _all_ her students, really. 

It bothers her, just a little as she considers it, that she tends not to see it that way. 

She looks to her House's table, the youngest Weasley boy and Mr. Potter... Mr. Weasley seems to be responding to Madam Snape's situation in the most unfortunate way imaginable. (That's a failure of imagination on her part, and she's doing the boy an injustice. There's no question it could be better, but it's early days yet and it honestly could be far worse. Which isn't to say Ron suddenly becomes sensible...) 

And Mr. Potter... 

She'd have hoped they'd both have been more supportive of the young woman. And even if Mr. Weasley couldn't see his way clear to doing so - she can understand why that might have been an ask too far in so short a period of time - but that if forced to choose, Mr. Potter might have thought to support his _other_ friend. 

She supposes that's part of the difficulty with those two boys permanently living in one another's pockets. 

Her lips purse in annoyance.

There's no sign of Madam Snape in the Great Hall, she notes and finds that... worrisome. She supposes she hasn't just missed the witch. She'll give it a few days more, and then she might have to intervene. She considers whom she might speak to, and is disappointed to realise she has to reject each of her little lions in turn. 

Miss Lovegood is the one she finally selects as the best option. 

Yes, she'll give things a few days to settle, and if things haven't returned to some semblance of normal by next week, she'll see about asking Miss Lovegood to intercede with the boys on Madam Snape's behalf. 

The knowledge that Severus had taken action on something so... _non-essential_ as the portrait is comforting. No one would have known of it if she hadn't happened to ask after the painting. It isn't something he's done for the sake of appearances, but because he felt it was _right_. She finds that reassuring. If he's keeping an eye on the non-essentials, perhaps he'll see to it the girl... the _young woman_ isn't neglecting the essentials either.  
  


Severus watches Minerva's face shifting, her displeasure often evident. He's been feeling... off lately. The physical abuse hasn't helped, but the bond has really unsettled him and he projects much of his own discomfort with his situation onto those around him. He erroneously assumes Minerva is still angry with him for bonding Miss Granger, and further that she condemns his actions with respect to the portrait. 

Unfortunately, he's effectively not taking the advice he gave to Hermione about not changing her behaviour in that he changes how he acts towards Minerva. Eager not to be on the receiving end of still more disapprobation - Merlin knows, life's too short - he avoids her in the days to come.  
  


Almost out of the blue, an idea suddenly strikes Minerva as to whose portrait she could hang in her classroom. If there were one of the witch to be had, that is. She knows exactly whom Madam Snape needs. Muggle-born? Witch? A woman who had achieved much in her lifetime and was an excellent role model? Check, check, check and check. 

She'd be _perfect_. 

Minerva needs to talk to Albus about getting that painting. Soonest.

Somewhat distracted, she rises and with nothing more than a muttered, "I need to speak to Albus about a portrait," towards the group, she leaves.

Severus naturally takes that for further confirmation that the woman will never forgive him for _anything_. 

_Ever_.

He can't help stewing a bit as he sits there silently.  
  


Minerva's talk with Albus won't be nearly as fruitful as she'd have hoped. He won't be able to tell her where to find the portrait she's seeking. 

Headmaster Black will join the conversation, proving useful for once, and can tell them he knows for a certainty that Boadicea Waterhouse had painted a portrait of the witch in question while he was Headmaster. As Temperance Mathew had been a school governor, the portrait of the famous Healer was actually done at Hogwarts, and had gone into storage there. Awaiting such a time as... Well, as portraits do. 

Unfortunately he can't say much more as to what had happened to the painting thereafter. He'd passed only very shortly after Temperance had, the Lethargic Lurgy claiming them both. For obvious reasons, there are gaps in his knowledge of that time. But he knows he'd rather lost hope when he heard she'd died. She and Swaine Swoopstikes were their best chances for finding a cure for the thing. Swaine had gone on to continue her work successfully, as Phineas has since learnt, but for them and many others, it had simply come too late. 

"Well, that's settled then," Albus will smarm. "It's lying about here somewhere." _If_ that were the case, not at all clear nearly three quarters of a century later, it's far from an easy task to find it given the size of the place. Minerva's face will betray those thoughts, much as it would any others. "Now, now, Min. Cheer up. I'll have Argus lend you a hand."

Argus won't be precisely happy to do so, but he'll comply. He always does. Still, he'll grumble about the amount of work he has to do, and she'll suggest setting Mr. Weasley on the job. He has detention, after all. 

He'll respond that Mr. Weasley won't be helping him long enough to make much progress, and Minerva will smirk and say that can be changed. 

And change it she will.  
  


When the Gryffindor team finally forces Ron to approach Professor MacGonagall after dinner to ask for her permission (for a change) for the team to practice early tomorrow morning, she'll grant it (after much back and forth); that had been her intention all along. However, Ron will suddenly find himself with an additional detention, to be served _immediately_. He won't even be sure for _what_ , to be honest, although the same is largely true of his other detentions as he hasn't quite acknowledged his role in receiving them, and most certainly not his _fault_. He'll be left with a vague feeling it's related to breaking curfew this morning. Not that he thought she knew...

Fair enough. 

He'll just be a little fuzzy on why _he's_ the only one with detention. Still, he'll be lucky enough to think to stop himself from _saying as much_ before he gets the entire team a detention. That wouldn't have gone over well. 

It will be a close thing, though. 

His luck will hold long enough for him to search twelve broom cupboards this evening for the portrait. It'll be dirty, sweaty work, but probably still better than cleaning the hallways manually would have been, and he'll be happy for the change. When he reaches the thirteenth, however, a bucket containing a good deal of rubbish and - _so much worse_ \- a nest of _spiders_ , somehow - almost magically - will fall from a shelf, overturning on his head. 

He'll run shrieking bloody murder down the corridor. 

His screams will attract Argus, who will be pleased to discover the portrait of Healer Mathew in the cupboard, and promptly forget to look after Weasley to see what the boy's about. He _will_ , however, report Weasley had run off and left his chores uncompleted, and Minerva will assign Ron a similar task tomorrow evening to compensate for it. 

Nothing quite makes an evening like _two_ detentions, after all.

* * *

  


Filius has the poor fortune of attempting to interest Severus in their conversation once again, but the Potions Master's mood has shifted significantly for the worse, and there's presumably no way back from his funk just at the moment. 

The Charmsmaster is very poorly rewarded for his kind efforts by Severus casting a Muffliato and turning to tell him just what the Ravenclaw's students had had to say about Miss Granger, _Madam Snape_ and their bonding. 

In full. Off-colour. Detail. 

Filius loses all colour himself as Severus continues, relentlessly, until he finally pushes his plate away in revulsion. He can't _imagine_ what's gotten into his students. First his fourth years ambushing a lone Hufflepuff and now this... The longer he listens, the angrier he becomes, a not remotely common response for the magnanimous little man, and the number of points he means to take from them keeps rising. By the time Severus has finished his recitation, Filius has arrived at thirty points a nose for a grand total of _ninety_. And that's on top of the forty-five in toto the seventh years had already lost for duelling in the corridors. 

Shameful. Absolutely _shameful_. 

He'll need to speak with them, he decides, and resolves to do so after classes today. _All_ _of them_ , really. After dinner then. This is unacceptable behaviour and he can't begin to understand it.  
  


All too typically, he's soon on his way to forgiving _them_ , and seeking the blame with _himself_. 

_Perhaps he hasn't been paying enough attention to what they've been doing lately... Between Frog Choir and the Hogwarts Orchestra, classes, grading, his duties as Head of House... Perhaps he's been stretched a little thin._

The stretch certainly hasn't made him any _taller_.  
  


Severus has had enough. 

Tired and annoyed, and it's only midday, he rises and leaves, determined to have Sunny bring him something delicious and actually _enjoy_ his lunch for once. 

He bloody well deserves it. 

Sunny will happily provide him with the same sort of barm cake butty he'd brought the Mistress. Severus will be every bit as enamoured of the thing as she was, and it starts a bit of a trend, with the elf providing many of the meals for _both_ of them in the days to come. 

Sunny, naturally, will be pleased as punch. The only thing that will detract from his happiness is that unfortunately they don't think to take those meals together. He'll feel certain it's only a matter of time. Humans can be quite silly, but for the most part, they eventually see sense, he is sure.  
  


Filius, his appetite now thoroughly ruined, doesn't remain much longer after Severus leaves. Pondering his students and their atrocious behaviour, he somewhat reluctantly heads to the Infirmary to see to Mr. Inglebee. But just the _thought_ of the lad at the moment leaves a bad taste in his mouth. 

That will be mitigated slightly by informing the fourth year that he has detention - once he gets out of the Infirmary - for attacking Mr. Kurz. And the chance Filius has to finally see those wings of Mr. Crabbe's that Poppy had been talking about... Well, that cheers him greatly. They're everything he'd hoped and more. 

With the help of Nurse Wainscott, Filius begins Mr. Inglebee's treatment as Severus had advised, after filling her in on the Potions Master's suggestions and at least some of his reasoning. (He quite wisely keeps the bit about wrong-handed irregular Charms to himself.) It's only the matter of minutes to convince the Nurse and administer the Boil-Cure. Well, a couple of them. Severus was right - of course he was - that's the lion's share of the work done right there. 

By the time Poppy returns from lunch, Filius and Wanda have made great progress towards healing the fourth year. So much so, in fact, that Darius won't have to miss the House meeting this evening, in which Filius will come about as close as he ever has to giving the group a thorough bollocking. While it won't make much of an impression on many, it will register with a few just because of that contrast. 

Typically, those probably aren't the ones he really needs to reach, however. 

Wanda, of course, hasn't changed substantially in the last day or so, and over the course of the afternoon, she'll be quick to tell the other students in their care all about the elaborate staff efforts to sort Mr. Inglebee - within the constraints provided by patient confidentiality. 

_Obviously_.

* * *

  


Word will spread, naturally, in the days to come about the _horrendous_ hex Creevey had performed on Inglebee. Things will become distorted, as they do, and the rumours will paint quite the colourful picture about how it took most of the staff to undo it (which will do wonders for Dennis' reputation, the students being as they are, a fact that drives Hermione to distraction). The way the Slytherins will tell the tale, _their_ Head had been the one to solve the problem, not that most of them will know what exactly that problem was, but that's probably the only perspective that will really matter from their point of view. Even Draco and Gregory won't suspect Creevey had used the Furnunculus, certainly not from the description anyway. 

Of course Dennis will be more than happy to provide Hunter with some of the details. Such as he knows them anyhow. 

As Minerva will have decided against sharing the salient pieces of information regarding the Jinx with her young Gryffindor, Dennis' understanding of what he had done will be non-trivially flawed. Fortunately however, she _will_ sit him down and make it exceedingly clear to him that he hadn't _remotely_ grasped the spell ( _that_ will be a bit of a blow to his ego, but then all that juicy gossip about the sheer magnitude of his hex will more than make up for it) and he _isn't_ to attempt to perform it again. _Ever_. Professor McGonagall has a way about her that commands respect, and all but the densest, or, um, the _Gryffindorest_ of her House tend to take her word as law. Dennis will accept that he's in no position to be teaching others the Jinx. But that won't mean he can't say what he'd done. 

It's only natural that the Pimple Jinx will quite capture Hunter's imagination as a result. 

Eventually the younger Hutchinson boy will work up the courage to ask his Housemate Sheldon Shafiq if he'd mind lending him one of his books on jinxes. Amused at the prospect, the sixth year will agree (it will help sway him slightly that they're distant cousins on their mothers' sides from the Shacklebolt line). Hunter will spend an evening studying the Jinx, eager to get it right. It will take him another day to work up his confidence, and then he'll feel ready. 

Wednesday evening next week, Harper will agree to run interference with the rest of their Quidditch team after practice and Hunter will lie in wait in one of the alcoves along the corridor leading to the dungeons. Dennis and Newton will come along for moral support. Well, _that_ and to satisfy their curiosity, of course. When Vince passes, as Dennis and Newton do their very best Notice-Me-Nots on the trio, Hunter will move in to cast.

Mindful of his swish and careful to enunciate properly, Professor Flitwick would be _so_ proud - well, except for the whole jinxing thing - he'll let loose with a great, "FUR-nunculus!" 

In seconds, Hunter's exaggerated outcropping to his wandstroke and unwavering intent - just like Professor Moody had taught him - will have Vince covered top to tail in boils. That much might be expected. But Severus is right, of course, that it can be tricky to try to master a spell solely from written material. 

Case in point, for the Pimple Jinx the _second_ syllable is stressed. Fur-NUN-culus. Hermione can't emphasise _enough_ how important pronunciation is; she'll readily add this to her list of examples once she hears of it. (Unfortunately _that_ will give rise to more people deliberately mispronouncing this particular Jinx - she really should have thought that through, and, really, everyone would have been better off if she were to have kept it to herself. She'll find that quite frustrating, but as the countermeasures will be known, the results fortunately won't get too terribly out of hand. It will, however, provide Severus with a reason for a good chuckle. That in turn will leave him feeling the need to make it up to his wife, which will rapidly render her frustration a thing of the past, as it typically does. But of course, that's a ways off yet.)

It transpires when one mistakenly stresses the first syllable as Hunter does, the _boils_ sprout _fur_. _Copious_ quantities thereof. (Although some of that excessive growth will be down to Hunter's intent as well.) As _Crabbe's_ luck would have it, it _also_ transpires that that fur is apparently _very_ closely related to Kneazle fur, enough so that it will trigger another allergy attack in the seventh year. 

As Vince will still be sporting his Bundimun coloured hair, that fur too will manifest in Snotter green. All that, combined with his black nails... Merlin. He'll look like a lumpy, green Sasquatch. Or maybe a mouldy Yeti. A mouldy Yeti, struck by a Hair-thickening Charm and struggling to breathe thanks to severe allergies. To _itself_ , apparently. He'll sink to his knees as the fourth year boys make a run for it, and still be lying, wheezing on the floor of the hallway when his teammates eventually come past. 

To be fair, the boys aren't quite as callous as that might appear. It'll be hard to see just how blue Vince's lips will have turned given the Everlasting Lippy Charm Róisín will have applied to him. The neon hot pink makes quite the impression with the rest of the school next week. She'll have to go back to an issue of 'Witch Weekly' from the eighties to find the right spell, but it will be _so_ worth it. 

That demonstration sends a flurry of girls scampering to the library to study the charms. Unfortunately, they'll discover the colours are _seriously_ outdated, wouldn't you know it, and there hadn't been more modern work along those lines as the basic Charm - independent of colour variant - tends to _really_ dry out one's lips. As Vince's lips will testify to one and all only too clearly a week later. They'll be sufficiently chapped that it will put everyone off those particular charms for some time to come. 

Of course, by then, he'll have other things to worry about, because the year isn't shaping up well for him. Not at all.  
  


By this point, when the Quidditch team finds Vince on the ground, Gregory will have so much practice, he won't even think to ask before taking Vince to the Infirmary; he'll simply scoop him up and go. Poppy will no longer be surprised to see them coming, although the pink lippy, green fur and black nails combination is certainly something new. 

She may just covertly snap another picture. For her records, to be clear.  
  


Suitably impressed with the results with Vince, the trio of terror (as they're calling themselves next week) will then go looking for Ron, and Hunter will proudly cast the Jinx again, finally getting Dennis his longed for revenge for the Weasel's attack on Colin (what are friends for?), much to their mutual satisfaction. A great deal of laughing ensues to a chorus of Ron's 'Bloody hell's as they make their getaway. 

Severus will again be called for a consultation, Poppy Floos with the details - boil-covered yetis, one in ginger and one in mouldering green - and then it will be his turn to struggle not to laugh as he prescribes a Depilating Draught in addition to the Boil-Cure. 

He'll be right to do so. _Absolutely_. The combination will neatly do the trick. 

But of course he'll have to fight even more not to laugh when the Draught renders both boys completely bald.  
  


On the upside, once the Hair Regrowing Spells return them - more or less - to normal (Ron will be quite displeased with his crew cut, and maintain his eyebrows are all wrong), Vince will no longer have green hair. Just as well, really, as it would have clashed with his thoroughly reddened nose and ultra pink lips.

* * *

  


Sarah leans closer to Sybill and whispers into her ear, "You have the seventh years after lunch, don't you?"

The puff of breath on her skin has the fine hairs at the nape of her neck rising, and it takes Sybill a moment to parse the question. "Hmm? Oh, yes. Yes I do." She sounds distracted as she says it. More so than usual even. 

"I'd like to repay the favour from yesterday. What do you say we put our heads together and come up with something?" For a moment the Divination Instructor can't imagine what she means, and then she recalls how she'd told Sarah about the Slytherins' mail snakes. Hmm. 

Interesting. Yes, she's intrigued. "Will the faculty lounge suit?" 

"With a Privacy Charm, I don't see why not."

The two witches leave the table and make themselves comfortable in the small room adjacent to the Hall where only yesterday Sybill had brought Sarah lunch and tried to make amends for her appalling behaviour. The thought of it embarrasses her now. 

If she were to go by Sarah's demeanour, those events never even cross her mind. 

"There must be something we can do with the information about Miss Jones. It took me unawares, and I wasn't able to do much more than say the move would be difficult. ' _Fraught_ with difficulties.'" She amends. 

Sybill gives her a considering look. It's still very new to speak openly of this. It's rather... nice. 

"That seems a safe assertion," she readily agrees. 

"Especially as from the sound of it, she's incommunicado and it couldn't be verified. Not even her best friend seems to know how to reach her. Miss Moon was the one to ask me to cast the twigs, you understand."

Sybill nods appreciatively. Sarah is quite smart. There are reasons she was a Ravenclaw. Much like herself. 

"But I thought if we combined our efforts, we might be able to expand on that." There's something hopeful about it that slowly has Sybill relaxing. She's never had someone to share her... work with. The... behind the scenes work. And it's nice that there's no judgment. Very nice. Sarah seems quite... likeminded. 

Sarah fills Sybill in on all the facts she'd been able to glean from the children, and they debate how much further this can safely be taken. There's a danger, naturally, that Miss Jones would get in touch with her friends at a later point. It hardly seems worthwhile to risk much in the face of that. And of course there had already been some sceptics as Sarah had 'read the twigs'. It's a unfortunate fact of life that not everyone who takes their classes is a true believer, hoping, perhaps, for an easy N.E.W.T. or certificate for their troubles. (Sarah doesn't honestly feel she's in any position to blame them; that had been much her logic for pursuing the subjects at the time when she was a student.) Still, it doesn't pay to venture too far out onto a limb (a limb!) and encourage the disbelievers to give voice to their doubts. 

They decide snow seems a likely prospect. Sarah consults an old almanac lying about the room, only to determine that it's from the turn of the century. It might be best to avoid any statements about Toronto off the back of that. The witches are agreed, it's unlikely the population has remained at two hundred and ten thousand, for example, or that horses - or brooms - are much of a fixture on their streets today. They Banish the book back to its corner, now with a little less dust. 

They finally decide that they really can't sensibly say much about what will happen, beyond what Sarah had already done spontaneously. The Xylomancy Professor initially finds that terribly disappointing until Sybill points out that means she'd made the most of it _off the cuff_. Her sense of pride soon proves adequate consolation.  
  


Good intentions aside, for reasons Sybill can't begin to fathom, when Miss Parkinson gives her an opening and hopefully asks if she can't say any more than Professor Sapworthy had about Jones' chances, the Divination Professor doesn't keep her mouth shut. Instead she tells them _Megan Jones will face great peril before reaching the safety of her new home_. 

Later she'll curse herself (figuratively) for her recklessness. 

And wonder why she didn't just stick with visions of snow.

* * *

  


Hermione meanwhile has had no luck with the back issues of the Prophet she's reviewed, and has the beginnings of a suspicion that isn't by chance. It feels a _lot_ like someone has deliberately removed any mention of the Professor or his family from the library. Seeking to confirm that, she revisits her decision to avoid the reports from after the first war. Beyond any doubt, there must have been _something_ written about the Professor then. 

With the way Skeeter and her ilk behave, Hermione can't believe they wouldn't have initially screamed to the high heavens when he was given a position at the school. Not necessarily from personal conviction, obviously, but to sell their bleeding rag. 

She still doesn't want to know what the Prophet had to say about him, but then it's not as though she has to actually _read_ the articles. And she has a strong feeling she won't be finding anything anyway. 

Acting on her hunch, she now dares to scan the more recent papers, the ones from the end of the last war. This proves much simpler. She only needs to search for mentions of 'Snape', as opposed to 'Prince', and there is only _one_ , and _just_ the one, to be found. It dates from shortly after the time he joined the staff. It's a short article buried rather far back in the paper from an interview with Madam Lyssandra, the proprietress of Dogweed  & Deathcap in Hogsmeade about how she has Severus Snape, Hogwarts' new Potions Master to thank for a sudden uptick in sales. She'd long wondered _how on earth the students were making the Elixir to Induce Euphoria when everyone with any sense knows that a sprig of Preeminent Peppermint was a far better choice than the standard method for the Potion, countering the occasional singing and nose-tweaking side effects as it does_. 

And that's _it_. 

That's _all_ there is to be found.  
  


Hermione considers it settled. She is now reasonably certain someone had removed the relevant papers from the collection. Flipping through what's there, she makes a note of some of the missing newspapers, and decides she can probably guess roughly when his mother was born. Or the Professor for that matter, assuming the birth announcements had been made in a timely fashion. 

With that avenue of enquiry closed, she leans back and considers what she can do next. A little uncomfortably, it occurs to her that she should probably see what she can find about panic attacks. At least that's not something likely to be in the Restricted Section. 

Honestly, she fears it's not likely to be in the library at all. 

It doesn't take her long to determine there's _nothing whatsoever_ along those lines in the Hogwarts facility, which says so much, really. 

She may need to see if she can come up with a list of related topics and find something there instead. That will take a little time, to be sure. 

After classes, then. 

She packs her things together to leave for Ancient Runes.

* * *

  


Daphne and Ella discuss what they might hope to achieve with a study of bonds as they walk to the library. First and foremost, there's the practical information. If they had a better understanding of what a Protection Vow is, perhaps they'd be better placed to assist the Professor. It sounds good, at least. And then it would be nice to know what bonds are and entail, and not just rely on rumours. Everyone in their House seems to have heard of the things and have some vague notion of what they might be, but no one seems to know the facts for sure. 

In light of the books Severus and Albus have already taken from the library, their first goal will prove virtually impossible, and they'll have to satisfy themselves with the second. 

Hermione has just exited the library as the Slytherins reach the doors. 

"Hermione!" Daph cries with an enthusiasm seldom matched. Hermione can't help thinking that'll take a period of adjustment. 

"Oh, hi, Daphne. Ella."

"Hermione," the sixth year greets her, trying hard not to think of how she'd appeared at the Head's door this morning, out of uniform and for all appearances perfectly at home in his quarters. Which, to be fair, she _was_ , really. It's an odd thought that takes some getting used to, and Ella has no intention of letting her effort show.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" Daph asks.

"No, but it doesn't seem to be here, which I guess is an answer in and of itself."

Daph nods knowingly, "Frustrating, isn't it? But if you know what you're looking for, maybe you can order the book from Flourish and Blotts?"

Hermione stares at her for a moment, blinking. Perhaps she _could_ order back issues from the Prophet... It's worth a think. It probably depends how expensive they are. "I just might at that. Thanks for the suggestion." 

"Sure. See you in Herbology," Daphne calls after her as Hermione heads to Ancient Runes. 

Once she rounds the next corner and is safely out of sight, she takes her afternoon dose of the Draught of Peace. She's pleased to note she hadn't even needed it once it wore off in the Library. Although she realises that might depend - a lot - on the people she encounters... 

The Baron is also pleased to note she apparently didn't need it in the library. She doesn't seem to have any particularly bad associations with the locale, something he wouldn't have wagered upon after Friday's attack. He continues following her invisibly as she heads for her next class.  
  


Ella and Daphne don't need long at all to divide the chores between them. From anyone else, Daphne might have taken it as an insult when Ella suggests Daph stick to the cultural and historical aspects of bonds, and she'll take the Vows. From Ella, she knows it isn't an attempt to belittle her. On the contrary, the subject matter the sixth year assigned to her is broader. 

"I wonder why they have those books in the Restricted Section anyway," Ella muses as they walk between the shelves, mentally marking off which sections to work their ways through later. 

"I imagine so as not to give the younger, more impressionable students any ideas," Daphne answers. "So that they don't go romanticising bonds or ascribing them any meaning until they're better able to understand the ramifications.

"There was a rumour making the rounds that some of the Gryffindors had tried to get a five year old sibling to take an Unbreakable Vow. Exposure to concepts without the maturity to grasp their consequences... It can be a dangerous thing."

That sounds perfectly sensible. So much so, that Ella can't help thinking it can't _possibly_ be the real reason the books are sectioned off. 'Whim' seems more probable at Hogwarts. 

"I'd heard something like that, too, but the sibling was only three," Ella agrees. 

"Well, that would be rumours for you. Hardly reliable. I mean, who would do such a thing to their brother or sister, independent of age?" 

A soft chuckle comes from behind the shelves, and as they reach the end of the row a few steps later, there's Padma Patil, trying not to laugh more loudly. They _are_ in the library after all. "Greengrass, Wilkins," she greets the girls with a wide smile she can't seem to stifle. 

"Patil," they both acknowledge her in turn. 

"Greengrass had the right of it," she smirks. "Ron was apparently five at the time. As to 'who would do such thing', would it make any more sense if I were to tell you it was the Weasley twins?"

"It would indeed," Ella instantly agrees. Not that it means she considers that _proof_ , but the story suddenly seems more likely. 

Something of that cautious scepticism might just be visible on her face, and Padma insists, "I heard it from them directly."

Both Slytherins are perfectly willing to believe that. They also both instantly recognise that that doesn't make it any more likely to be true. The twins were hardly reliable sources. Still, they politely nod their acceptance of that 'fact', and Padma can't quite put her finger on why it feels... off. 

Slightly annoyed by that, she _had_ just volunteered information she didn't have to, a bit waspishly she now tells them, "And you won't have much luck finding books on Vows. That's why I'm here. We thought to check them out as well, you know, but they've already been picked clean." And with that, she turns and flounces off to Divination. The classroom is close by, she hasn't far to go, but she shouldn't like to keep Professor Trelawney waiting. 

Padma _is_ the Head Girl now, after all.  
  


Ella and Daphne are left staring after her and then, almost as one, recover and turn their attention to the shelves. 

There _are_ quite a number of gaps; Patil may be right. Ella sighs. "Fine, I need to get going, too. Tell you what, let's switch topics. You look for the material on Vows. If Patil wasn't mistaken, it shouldn't take you long to determine it. Then move on to the cultural information and leave me a note how far you got. I'll concentrate on the historical side and we'll meet in the middle, so to speak."

Daphne agrees, also inclined to believe what Patil had had to say, and Ella says goodbye and darts off to class. 

Daphne shifts her attention towards the books. She enjoys spending time here. Although they could lighten the place up a little. It always seems a bit gloomy.  
  


It really doesn't take long to realise Patil had been telling the truth. There's nothing applicable on Vows to be had. Daphne spends the better portion of the hour putting together a selection of books to read on the cultural facets. She stops a little early, she'll still need to go all the way to the greenhouses and she intends to meet Hermione and Tracey - and presumably the Slytherin boys they're avoiding - for the walk over. Even with things as they are between them, it wouldn't make sense not to go as a group. 

That's just asking for trouble. 

She quickly quills a note for Ella telling her what she'd done and where she stopped which she folds together in a bit of origami. With Vince's wings still very much in mind, she makes a small dragonfly. A few sweeps of her wand later, and the little thing is charmed to hide for the meantime and then fly to the sixth year Prefect when Ella arrives. 

In a series of gentle loops, of course. 

The direct path wouldn't be the least bit aesthetically pleasing, Daphne is sure.

* * *

  


Hermione arrives early for class in the corridor in front of the Ancient Runes room to find Malfoy and Nott already standing there. In contrast to when the three of them had stood about in front of Arithmancy yesterday, Nott looks like he's about to leap out of his skin at the sight of her. 

Well, that's odd. 

Even odder, and she can't quite explain it, but it doesn't seem to make her feel more comfortable with their presence either. She's trying to figure out why that might be as Malfoy whispers to Nott; at guess, trying to talk him round from whatever that is. He's slid down the wall he'd been leaning against and is now curled together, fairly ball-like on the floor. 

With an odd start, it occurs to her that it looks an awful lot like Nott's having a _panic attack_. 

Well. 

_That_ seems to be going around.  
  


She may be staring, she can't seem to help it, and she's just determining that it's a concerning thing to see and maybe she should be looking into it herself with a bit more rigour when the Baron fades into view beside her. 

Silently. 

He really is a dear. 

"Hullo, Baron," she greets him, and her tone is warm. 

_Fond_. 

The Baron has come to suspect she was dropped on her head as a babe. It would explain so much. 'Estray' simply isn't adequate to the task of accounting for the... manifold oddities. Which isn't to say he... dislikes her. 

Not at all. 

"Madam Snape," he bobs in reply. It's possible his whisper isn't entirely without a touch of fondness in return. 

Theo may have squealed at the sight of him. (The Baron finds that not... unsatisfactory.)

Draco is busy whispering that _it's_ their _House ghost, after all. He's worked with him for_ years _. The numbers of Moggies and Turkeys they've caught snogging in alcoves after curfew over the years thanks to his work... He's not terrifying at all._

Well, not _much_. (But then it wouldn't help to say so.)

Theo emits a sort of keening noise as he rocks there, or as much as he can with the wall behind him restricting his movements. Just as well, or he'd probably flop flat on the floor.  
  


A thought strikes Hermione, and she whispers to the Baron, "What would you say is the matter with Nott?"

At the present, the Baron thinks there's rather... a _lot_ that's wrong with the boys, and he has to wonder what the witch wishes to hear from him. He's not precisely... disinclined to say it. Guessing what it might be is another matter however. 

He hesitates, hovering there next to her, and she realises she's lost him. "He's having a sort of an attack," she explains, "and I'm trying to find the words for it." He gives her a funny look, and she can admit (to herself), that seems terribly clinical. Perhaps somewhat rude. That's never really been her strength. (Naturally, that isn't his issue with it at all.) "I wanted to look for information on it in the library, to treat it you understand, but couldn't find the right terms."

And now he's silently calculating just how _often_ she must have been dropped on her head. Still, the results were surprisingly... kind. Not blessed with much... sense, it would appear. Pity that (although it's fairly endemic in the student body). But _kind_ nevertheless, despite what must have been some... wretched luck. At least he hopes it's that. It's entirely possible she's simply... accustomed to abuse. 

The thought makes him... angry. 

He fades briefly and then abruptly flickers even more crisply into sight. 

He's struggling to choose his whispered words carefully. "You mean to... _treat_ him, Madam?"

"What? Oh, no. I'm sorry, no I hadn't. It didn't even occur to me." She replies honestly, and for a moment she feels guilty and wonders if it _should have_. The Baron would probably have conniptions if he knew. "I... Well, I had... similar issues." If the Baron had been angry before, he's more so now. "I don't know. Maybe I was just... I wasn't in a good place last night, and maybe it was just a fluke. But in case it wasn't, I thought I might find some help for it in the library, but I need the proper terms to find the right books."

He is practically opaque at the moment, something the boys, to the extent they're capable of noticing, know to be a very bad sign. But his whisper, when it comes, is measured. Controlled. He will never again allow emotion to get the better of him or direct his anger inappropriately at an innocent party. And certainly not at an innocent _witch_. 

Not that that had been an easy lesson, but he's learnt it. 

"I think you'll find he's having a 'fit'." 

Hermione considers how helpful that term is likely to prove, but it's probably a better word to search for than 'Prince', so she's not displeased. 

The Baron, meanwhile, is throwing the boys some incredibly dark looks.  
  


Theo has recovered enough to argue, just a little. It might be that the automatic fear response the Baron elicits shifts him into a different state of awareness, a very _real_ fear trumping a largely psychological one... Either way, he's currently _very_ concerned with what's going on with the ghost. Gulping, he asks Draco, "And why do you think he feels the need to protect her from _us_?" 

Draco knows _precisely_ why the Baron thinks he needs to protect Granger from them, and isn't that... Well, he can't say as much, and it wouldn't help matters any to do so. He really isn't sure _what_ to say to Theo at this point. 

In absence of other obvious options, he settles on castigating him. It's not pleasant, but it's also not an ineffective choice. Theo is so used to being bossed about by his father, disregarding _him_ is _never_ an option, that he instinctively responds. (As Hermione will later come to know, terror and reproaches _aren't_ actually good ways to treat anxiety, certainly not for the longer term, but then the general approach to mental health at Hogwarts is far from... healthy.) 

"That is our Head's bondmate, and you are being unconscionably rude. This is no fitting way for a seventh year to behave, Nott. Merlin, it wouldn't be acceptable from a Firstie. Pull yourself together, or what's she supposed to think?"

There are actually tears glistening in his eyes as Theo finally meets Draco's gaze, but he knuckles them away as he allows Draco to pull him upright. 

Draco silently thanks Merlin and anyone else listening that it worked as he hadn't any sort of plan 'B'. It hadn't really been much of a plan 'A' for that matter. He puts himself in front of Theo to provide cover and give him time to right himself. Theo is quietly grateful, not having missed the intent. 

"Madam Snape," Draco calls out, keeping his distance and silently hoping Theo will continue to remain on his feet behind him without his assistance. "Baron."

The Baron moves slightly closer to the boys, his face a threatening grimace. Draco repeats his movements from yesterday, extending his hands out from his body, endeavouring to appear as non-threatening as possible. "Baron," he tries again, pleased when his voice doesn't embarrass him this time. 

Really, the House ghost isn't a patch on the Dark Lord. This should be cinch. Draco holds his ground. 

Not that the Baron wavers either. 

Theo just keeps his eyes affixed to the ceiling. It's probably just as well as that means he misses the full effect of the ghost's displeasure. 

They stand there, probably only for seconds, but it feels much longer, none of them exactly sure what should come next, when they're interrupted by the arrival of the Hufflepuffs in the class.  
  


The Hufflepuffs have been on edge since news of Megan Jones had reached their ears. Finch-Fletchley sits in five courses with Hermione and the two Slytherins and is generally less fussed by seeing them here, but it's the first class they've had with Hopkins and Rivers since the announcement of the bonds on Monday, and today they seem to be itching for a fight. 

"Granger," Hopkins snits in mock greeting. "Oh no. Wait. It's ' _Snape_ ' now isn't it." It's clear to all present he was well aware of that fact, and this is a nasty bit of theatre. 

"Wayne! However could you _forget_?" Rivers replies, with a tone of voice that makes his revulsion at the prospect of such a bonding abundantly clear. That, and the fact this posturing is all for show. 

Arse.

Still. Hermione is kind of over this sort of thing. The Peace in her system undoubtedly helps. She hardly gives the boys a second glance. The Baron weighs the best response, but the young Snakes beat him to it. 

Or Malfoy, more specifically. 

Draco has been calculating the odds, and this seems the best way to go. He's sure. 

Reasonably. 

Fine, mostly he's trusting to luck and hoping _his_ has changed. At least a little.  
  


Mindful of keeping his distance to Granger, he places himself bodily between the witch and the approaching Hufflepuffs, "That's 'Madam Snape' to you."

"Shut it, Malfoy. No one wants to hear anything from a poxy Death Eater like you," Rivers snarls. Hmm. That's been all too common a thing since Draco's father landed in Azkaban. There'd been a time when no one would have dared be so insolent to his face... (He's misremembering that completely. The Moggies, for one, have basically _always_ openly disrespected him, the Weasleys and Potter in particular, but it's become a default pattern to blame his family's fall from grace on his father's arrest. Then again, he's not thoroughly mistaken on that score.)

Draco ignores Rivers and demands of Hopkins, "Apologise to the lady." Theo, half automatically, takes up position by Draco's back, his aversion to Muggle-born witches (not that there's anything intrinsically wrong with them, of course; no, the problem is all _his_...) completely forgotten at the moment. This is shaping up to be a duel. He's - unfortunately - incredibly accustomed to those these days. 

Hermione is glad she remembered to take the Peace, because she's quite certain she'd have succumbed to fits of extremely dark laughter by now. Malfoy. Defending her honour? Or something like it. It's really too absurd. 

The Baron pulls back a little, electing to allow the wizards to sort this. There are... issues with overplaying his hand. If they can take this matter off of his, all the better. And it smacks a little of reparations, which satisfies something in his sense of justice. 

"Make me," it's Hopkins' turn to snarl like an oversized Firstie. Draco isn't sure what's gotten into the sett today - well, aside from the thing with Jones - but the badgers are clearly riled. 

"Apologise." Draco's demand is firm, his wand in hand. Hermione's not even sure when he drew it. He's apparently extremely fast with it, she notes. She wonders why that's such a surprise. She turns to look and sees Nott has palmed his as well. 

Her thoughts still rather dark, she wonders if 'they' practise the way the D.A. had. 

(They do, as Severus will eventually tell her, but it's something they learn primarily by suffering the results of failure. Few of them are prone to repeating mistakes. Experience hexes that out of them. They are also provided with myriad occasions to prove that, and while it's unfortunately far from being practice - the stakes are far too real for that - ultimately it serves much the same purpose.) 

The Hufflepuffs draw their wands now, too, and suddenly Finch-Fletchley looks alert. This has escalated quickly, and he's not sure why. Neither are the other boys, frankly, but as participants, it's a question none of the other four are asking. 

"Hermione?" Justin tries; it's sort of an appeal to reason. 

She's just not sure quite how reasonable she feels. 

She's really rather had it with the stupid remarks. Considering, she realises she has no problem whatsoever watching Malfoy get hexed something silly - no, that would be fine - or with seeing people inclined to heap abuse on her getting hexed either. Whyever should she? It's sort of a win-win prospect, really. And she's utterly confident that her Protego will hold if these idiots start fighting. 

Why on earth would she intervene?

Ah. Right. 

She's a _Prefect_. 

Hmm. 

Well, she'll wait them out, and then take points from the lot when they're finished, deducting as she strolls through the carnage. That plan has the advantage of being able to take the maximum points for things actually _done_. 

It just keeps getting better and better really. 

Justin sees the resolve on her face, and she hasn't said anything to talk the others out of this. He has a bad feeling about how this will end. (He's far from wrong, but he's not entirely right either.)  
  


It unfolds as if in slow motion. 

Draco very deliberately slashes his wand downwards, performing the charm silently, because he's a terribly sneaky snake. Hopkins and Rivers panic and cast the first hexes that come to mind. This coincides with Justin's attempt to get between them, as he cries out, "No, wait! It's just a Protego!" Had the other two also joined the D.A., they might have known. 

Sadly, Justin's too late. 

Theo casts another Protego from behind Draco, and between the two Shield Charms, the hexes ricochet back down the narrow hallway in the direction of the casters. Hermione's Protego, following only an instant after the other two, unnecessarily includes the Baron in it, and while it will make no physical difference, few things do, he feels... appreciated. 

Strange little witch, but yes, _kind_. 

And Hermione doesn't even need to take points as Professor Babbling (chatting with Ravenclaw Mandy Brocklehurst about how she likes the new Ancient Studies Professor) arrives on scene just as it all happens. 

Wayne gets hit by Oliver's Horn tongue hex, and is soon unable to speak at all, not that it's much of a loss today. Wayne's Mutatio Skullus (he's been reading archeological texts - Egyptology, don't you know) unfortunately catches Justin in the crossfire, and within moments, he's sporting a second head. 

"Mr. Hopkins! Mr. Rivers! Stop this very instant! What were you thinking?" Wayne clearly can't answer, and Oliver just stands there gawping at the sight of a two-headed Justin. He didn't even know there was a Spell for that. 

_Both_ of Justin's heads proceed to answer. "S-Sorry, P-Professor B-Babbling. I-I g-guess o-our n-nerves a-are a-all st-still r-rather r-raw, wh-what w-with th-the n-news a-about M-Megan..." The slight echo arising from their marginally asynchronous responses is most distracting, but the approach was solid. It appeals for sympathy and happens to be true. That it in no way excuses their actions is another matter, and unfortunately for the Hufflepuffs, Bathsheda Babbling isn't the sort who's likely to overlook that. 

On the contrary, she walks into their midst and draws her wand. A moment later, she's casting Prior Incantato - the Reverse Spell - on them all, one after another. A slight bias can still be seen in the fact she tests the Slytherins first, but everyone is so used to that, they hardly notice anymore. 

"Mr. Hopkins, Mr. Rivers, I can't begin to say how disappointed I am in the both of you." Up until this year, she'd taught them both Ancient Studies as well, and they have a pretty good relationship with the woman. Her back ramrod straight, she radiates dignity, not even flustered by stepping into the midst of a duel. (Although it helps, more than marginally, that it had effectively ended when she did so.) She hasn't even tested the Hufflepuffs' wands yet, addressing the Slytherins - and Madam Snape, just to be sure - first, and Oliver misjudges the situation terribly. The fact she _hadn't_ gotten to them yet, and _still_ seems so disappointed really gives it away. 

"But Malfoy hexed first!" He objects, not entirely unreasonably. Truthfully, he's absolutely correct that Draco had _cast_ first, and if the Slytherin had honestly meant to _de-escalate_ the situation, he wouldn't have cast the thing _silently_. But then he isn't in his House solely for the sake of family tradition. 

"Malfoy may or may not have cast first, but he only cast a Shield Charm. And you can hardly blame him with the sort of things you two were hexing about. You should be ashamed of yourselves." Her disapproval is clear, although as their one time Professor of Ancient Studies, she's secretly also somewhat impressed by the reading Mr. Hopkins must have done. Still. That's no excuse to use the Mutatio Skullus on a fellow student. (Nevertheless, this satisfies her academic curiosity on the matter rather nicely. She's always _wondered_ how it looked. The answer is: fairly grisly.)

Feeling just a wee bit guilty for that thought, she's all the more strict when facing the boys now. "Mr. Hopkins, Mr. Rivers. _Thirty points_ from _each_ of you for hexing fellow students in the halls like that."

"But Professor! That's not fair! It was a _duel_!" Oliver tries to explain and claw back a few points while he's at it. Sixty points! The others are going to have their hides. 

"A duel, Mr. Rivers, involves at least _two_ sides. By definition, it _cannot_ involve just the one. _That_ is nothing less than a perfidious attack on innocent parties."

And now Hermione knows with a certainty, without the Peace she'd be rolling on the floor with laughter. _Innocent parties_. Malfoy? Holy Cricket. 

"B-But P-Professor B-Babbling," Justin's heads try to help, it really is terribly distracting listening to both, "th-they h-had n-no w-way of-of kn-knowing. It-It w-was c-cast w-wordlessly."

Frankly, it's distracting enough that she rather misses the point of his argument. (But if she hadn't, Draco would have argued casting a Protego silently can increase it's efficacy as it's far more difficult to counter. It was a very well considered ploy on his part.) She shakes her head. "Either way, Mr. Finch-Fletchley, they could have cast Shield Charms as well, and then things would look quite different at the moment. But they didn't. They resorted to hexes, and that's not acceptable." That's definitely true enough. 

"Mr. Finch-Fletchley, Mr. Hopkins get yourselves to the Infirmary. Madam Pomfrey will see to you." She silently hopes so anyway. The double heads are rather disturbing. "Mr. Rivers, seeing as I am quite evidently failing to reach you, you may see Mr. Filch for detention after dinner."

He sputters and then groans but wisely holds his tongue as his Housemates leave for the Infirmary and the Professor lets the rest of them into the classroom. 

Mandy whispers in passing, "Merlin, Rivers, _what were you thinking_?" Her question seems decidedly less rhetorical than Professor Babbling's had been. 

"That Malfoy was about to hex me senseless..." he replies quietly enough that the Professor shouldn't hear him. He's certainly in enough trouble already. 

"No, you fool. Muppeting about like that. The proper response is 'I'm sorry, Professor' and then you keep. Your mouth. Shut." 

Hermione couldn't agree more. But then there are reasons Brocklehurst is a Ravenclaw and Rivers is not.  
  


The Baron, long since faded from sight, has to acknowledge Malfoy's solution hadn't been... lacking. He's regained a little ground with that display. 

Still, the exchange with the witch earlier has left the Baron feeling there is someone with whom he needs to... have a talk. 

Now.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Für Jutta.


	101. 11 12n Wednesday - Afternoon Classes

**Hermione 7G (Prefect, Supreme Swot)**

**Staff:**  
Poppy Pomfrey (Mediwitch extraordinaire), Nurse Wanda Wainscott (chatty)

**Slytherins:**  
Draco 7S (Prefect, Team Captain, Seeker, Swot), Theo Nott 7S (Swottiest, Nervous Wreck), Vincent 'Vince' Crabbe 7S (Beater, Winged ex-Couch still-Potato), Gregory Goyle 7S (Beater), Daphne Greengrass 7S (Sparkly! Fwoopers!), Tracey Davis 7S (Swottier), Millicent 'Millie' Bulstrode (Reserve Beater, yes, _that_.), Alberta Runcorn 7S (Grumpy, but not as much so as the Staircase.)

**Gryffindors:**  
Harry 7G (Team Captain, Seeker, the Boy-Who-Lived-to-Annoy-Severus), Ron Weasley 7G (Prefect, Keeper (but only in the Quidditch sense), the Boy-Who-Exists-to-Annoy-Hermione), Neville Longbottom 7G (errant Herbal Knight)

**Hufflepuffs:**  
Justin Finch-Fletchley (Muggle-born member of the D.A.), Wayne Hopkins (aspiring Egyptologist)

**Others:**  
The Bloody Baron (Slytherin House Ghost), Portrait Phineas Nigellus Black (erstwhile Headmaster, ex-HoS)

**Mentioned briefly:** **Slytherins:** Harper Hutchinson 6S (Prefect, Chaser, flash Robe Model), Ella Wilkins 6S (Prefect), Valerie 'Val' Vaisey 6S (Chaser), Val Vaisey (Class of '97, Valerie's cousin)  


* * *

* * *

  
**Previously:**  
Suspecting they may need to fill in for the Slytherin seventh year boys, the House's reserve Quidditch players have been practising with the sixth year Chasers during lunch. 098-100

Gregory dashes for the loo after Severus'... experiment in the Great Hall temporarily gifts him a spiralled snake's tail. As if _that_ weren't bad enough, it ruined his trousers in the process. Draco, all too used to this sort of thing, is good enough to repair them for him. 099 

Millie and Alberta make a concerted effort and learn the Mobilicorpus, which they use, perhaps not quite optimally, to transport Vince back to the dorms from the Infirmary Tuesday evening. (On the upside, they made Ernie Macmillan's day in the process. Vince's... less so.) 081

Severus employs the Universal Solvent to 'unstick' Vince from the couch, at least as far as appearances go. What it _really_ does is irritate the skin with which it comes in contact more than a classroom full of Gryffindors is prone to irritate Severus. Full of _Longbottoms_ , even. Gregory, just the soul of luck, gets some on him when Vince flops into his lap and promptly develops a reaction to the stuff. 095 Severus... dispatches them both to the Infirmary. 097

The Baron had a heart to heart with the portraits in which he requested their assistance in keeping an eye on the Head's bondmate. Of course he... may have suggested they'd face relocation to dark and lonely corners of the castle should they fail to do so. Mentioned 078 

Hermione tells the Baron about her unsatisfactory visit to the Headmaster's office last night. 098 She further causes him some unease when she mentions she'd had a 'fit' last night. 100 

Draco manages to get a couple of 'Puffs to cast hexes outside of Runes while ostensibly defending Hermione's honour. (Her brain melts at that, just a little.) The hexes rebound and the unfortunate victims are sent to the Infirmary. 100  


* * *

* * *

Millie's fresh from their unofficial Quidditch practice and is rushing down the corridor. She's hoping to swing by the Great Hall while they're still serving for another bite to eat. Harper's Cleaning and Cleansing Charms saved a great deal of time over showering - she really needs to learn those - and she thinks she might get to the Hall just in time. Daphne and Ella had brought them something, nicely enough, _really_ , but those... _waifs_ just have no idea about portion sizes, and frankly, Millie is still feeling a might peckish. 

Fine, she's hungry, having worked up quite the appetite on the pitch, gods damn it. 

Er, for goodness' sake. Yes. _That_. 

She's cutting it close, a thought reinforced by the sight of a few of their fourth years belting down the corridor in the opposite direction, presumably running late for their next class. 

She hasn't quite made it to the Hall when she hears a strange noise and slows her pace, her wand instantly to hand. She's no fool. 

Weird noises are an all too common occurrence in the castle, but the smart witch comes prepared. 

There are any of a number of things it could be, what she _isn't_ expecting is what it _is_. 

Gregory appears, literally _crawling_ from the lav. He's on the floor, pulling himself along, moaning up a storm. It's more than passing strange. 

All thoughts of food forgotten, Millie is nice that way, she hurries to her friend's side. "Gregory! What's wrong?"

He's not able to form a coherent sentence. 

It's just as well, as it's not a pleasant story. 

But clearly it needs telling.  
  


Over the course of the day, and admittedly not very originally, several members of their House have had the same idea: that it might be... _amusing_ to remove the loo rolls from the lavatories used by the seventh year boys. Adolescent male humour frequently isn't precisely a... nuanced thing. They aren't very original, a problem compounded by the fact that, by and large, they aren't coordinating their attacks beyond basic tips and pointers. In fact, this is _fourth_ time one of them has resorted to this ploy against the seventh years today. Vince has been spared only because he was glued to a couch and then delivered to the Infirmary. His luck won't hold - or rather: it _does_ and remains poor - but at least by then he's forewarned. 

Interestingly, although perhaps not so surprisingly, their responses to the problem are as varied as the boys themselves, as they'll discover tomorrow when they finally begin to speak to one another more openly about the attacks on them. Draco was fortunate enough to be the first hit. He'd simply Summoned a new roll. That much his Housemates shared with one another, and in subsequent attempts, _all_ loo rolls were Banished from the lavs, a fact that will irritate the elves quite a bit. Of course, it irritates the seventh years more. Or potentially parts of their anatomies. Theo Transfigured some paper, it wasn't any great challenge. Frankly, he's done it before, and it's possible his Transfiguration is softer than the usual fare. Blaise almost predictably applied an Aguamenti and Drying Charm. As he explains to Vince tomorrow, it's rather like a bidet, not that he expects Vince to know what he's talking about. 

Vince will be undecided if he should take offence. Blaise is a bit... Well, he may not be quite the standard by which Vince thinks a wizard should be measured. It's entirely possible _not_ understanding him speaks _for_ a person. 

The real problem was with Gregory. He hasn't quite as many spells in his repertoire as the others. 

And very sadly - it's really such a shame - no one bothered to tell him that the Scourgify he used on Vince this morning was meant for scouring _cookware_. 

Consequently, finding himself in a bit of a situation, he elects to use it on... _himself_. 

As unpleasant as Vince had found it, and it was, when applied to more... _sensitive_ body parts, the pain is immeasurably worse. Ultimately, it will land Gregory in the Infirmary. (And so oddly the Matron seems to have no sympathy whatsoever, but then perspective is everything and frequently wanting.) Upon seeing his state, Vince will feel somewhat avenged for this morning's application of the Charm. It will also convince him, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that Gregory hadn't meant anything by it. 

Nothing at all. 

Merlin knows, _no one_ would do this to themselves _deliberately_.  
  


But the boy is still a ways from the Infirmary. At the moment, he's a puddle of human misery on the hallway floor.

Millie can't make any sense of his whimpers, but she's reasonably sure a visit to Madam Pomfrey is in order; she's clocked that even without First Aid courses. She's just trying to puzzle out how to do it when Alberta arrives, apparently coming from the Great Hall with Gregory's books in hand. She's surprised and a little disappointed to see how well his trousers have been mended, bollocks, but then they'd declared the seventh years off limits anyway. 

Still. 

Pity. 

That was an arse worth seeing. 

And while she's at a bit of a loss how he'd managed to repair his clothing so well, or how _Millie_ had for that matter, Alberta has even less luck trying to explain to herself what he's doing on the ground. She gives up trying and turns to her roommate, "What happened?"

"I haven't a clue. I just found him like this. You have the next period free, too... Would you mind helping me get him to Madam Pomfrey?"

"Well, we certainly can't leave him _here_ ," Alberta agrees, even if she doesn't seem terribly happy about it. "Who thought the Mobilicorpus would come in handy again so soon?"

And _that_ finally does the trick. 

Gregory pulls himself together enough to beg, "No! Please!" 

While they were lying about the Infirmary first period - Vince for his assorted hexes, and Gregory patiently waiting for Pomfrey to address the worst of those before she looked to his own rash - Vince in cataloguing his injuries had been rather... graphic about the shape the girls' Mobilicorpus had left him in yesterday. 

Gregory has no desire to be on the receiving end of _that_. 

It's a little unclear how much of that was the assorted hexes of their Housemates, Alberta's Diffindos (not that that's to say Gregory's had been better, they certainly hadn't been), or the Mobilicorpus... But it _is_ fair to say the Mobilicorpus hadn't been pleasant. 

It's all Gregory manages, but his 'No!' is clear enough. 

Some people are even willing to accept that for an answer.  
  


Somewhat affronted, the girls nevertheless brace him, one under each arm, and half carry him to the Infirmary, where Madam Pomfrey is surprised to see him again so soon.

"Is he still having problems with the reaction to the Universal Solvent?" she asks. The girls really can't say. Pomfrey directs them to deposit Gregory on the bed next to Vince. Again. 

"Back so soon?" Vince observes from where he's lying on his stomach, his wings steadily flapping above him. It's a strange sight. "Missed me?" But Gregory is in no shape to respond to his attempts at humour. 

Alberta has no desire to stick around. They've gone above and beyond by getting their Housemate here. Anything else flies in the face of what they'd agreed about the seventh year boys just yesterday, Alberta is sure. It's one thing to make sure some Moggie doesn't steal Gregory's abandoned textbooks or not to leave him writhing on the floor; it's another entirely to _socialise_. As soon as they've explained to the Matron how they'd discovered Gregory outside the lav, there's really nothing further to say, she turns to her roommate and asks, "You coming, Millie?"

Millie is less certain about how she should see the boys, Gregory and Vince in particular, and frankly she's feeling a little guilty for practising as she had during lunch in relative secret. It feels too much like going behind their backs to try to replace them. Actually, that's a pretty good assessment of what they'd done. Obviously, she'll feel even worse when neither of the boys make it to this afternoon's practice, and Millie and Sheldon will be forced to fill in for them. 

"I thought as long as I'm here, I'd stop and visit a bit..." Millie sounds unsure, that uncertainty apparent. Alberta will _definitely_ be speaking to the other girls about this. 

"It's up to you," she answers, but only half means it. The decision is Millie's for the moment, sure, but Alberta plans to have the rest of the girls exert as much pressure on her roommate as they can to get her back in line. She's quietly confident it won't take much doing to straighten her out. Typically, she's underestimating Millie. Many people do. 

Alberta enlargens and deposits Gregory's books on the table next to him and leaves without a backwards glance. 

Had she known that Madam Pomfrey's diagnostic charms would soon have her Divestoing Gregory's trousers and pants again behind makeshift screens that do a truly poor job indeed of screening, she'd probably have stayed for the view. 

And then the sight of her classmate's thoroughly abraded backside might have alleviated any qualms she had about helping him.  
  


While Poppy can't muster much pity for these Slytherins, not after what happened to Severus and Madam Snape, she recognises a need to act when her Charms detect one. And Nimue's knickers, is there ever a need to act here. She can't begin to explain what was done to the boy - if pressed, she'd almost guess 'torture'. 

Not that she finds an assault on his genitals entirely _unfitting_ after Friday... But in a _school_. This kind of behaviour is _frightening_. And it seems yet another truly terrifying escalation. 

That is until she later learns that he'd been fool enough to do this to _himself_. 

Then the sense of relief will be immense, disbelief over student stupidity following closely on its heels. 

Some people probably shouldn't be allowed to wield wands. 

For the present, she Summons some Liquid Skin immediately and gets to work. 

Of course, she _still_ supposedly hasn't got any Pain Relief. She almost feels guilty as she perpetuates that sham. 

_Almost_.  
  


Vince takes advantage of Millie's presence to put the screws to her, he just is that sort of person. He decides to blag a favour while he still can. He hadn't missed the look Alberta threw Millie when she decided to stay. The window of opportunity is closing here. He strikes before it shuts completely. 

Her attention is firmly on what she can see of Gregory beyond the screen the Mediwitch had flicked into place between them, although probably not for quite the same reasons Alberta might have stared. Vince is undaunted and lobs volley after volley her way. 

_The problems with his allergies._ Terrible _. At this rate, he won't be able to play. And they_ need _him. Match against the Moggies, isn't there?_ No one _wants the Moggies to win..._

Before she can object that their need of him is clearly contradicted by what's going on with his allergies, he's moved on to explain that. Superficially, anyway. She still has issues with his logic and suppositions. 

_It's probably down to the sixth year boys, angling for his spot on the team. He needs her help. He'd helped her get on the team, hadn't he? He desperately needs a charm to Banish all the Kneazle hairs. Millie should know something like that anyway, she has a cat, doesn't she? The charms are the same..._

Millie naturally knows no such charms (somehow people always seem to want things from her that make her feel even _more_ inadequate), and equally naturally has no desire to admit that. 

Bugger. Er... _darn_.

But Vince can read that on her face. Enough of it anyway. He shifts course. 

_If she could just go to the library for him... It would be the work of minutes to look up such a charm._

Probably substantially longer, she thinks, but not too terribly so. 

"I could ask Harper," Millie suggest hopefully. Researching _really_ isn't her thing. "He's had Crankshaft for a while," probably about as long as she's had her cat Maleficent, so she's not sure the argument holds... "He might know the Charm and be able to show you?" 

"Millie, I'm pretty sure his damn Kneazle is the creature I'm allergic to. And there's no way that his fur is getting in my bed unless they're deliberately arranging it somehow." She doesn't correct him that Crankshaft is a half-Kneazle, but his point is taken. There _are_ Charms on the doorways after all. "Plus I don't think they want anything to do with us, so asking him to teach me... That's not going to help, now is it?"

"And if I asked him to teach _me_?"

"Millie, I'll be better off if he thinks his prank is still working. Then he'll stick to that instead of coming up with something new. Or do you want a repeat of this morning? More hexes? Even more wings?" He flaps his demonstratively to emphasise his point, and she's forced to lean back quickly to avoid them. "Or do you want me to end up like Gregory?" They can both hear his moans from behind the screen. It's not... encouraging. 

"Look," he tries again, " _you'll_ be better off if you don't ask. You don't want them to suspect you've helped us. And I appreciate it, I really do. You're a good friend, Millie. Bringing Gregory here like that. What kind of animals would do that to him? And then just leave him lying there..."  
  


Having gotten all pertinent information from Mr. Goyle and appropriate potions into him, Poppy resorts to a Stupefy for pain management without any further hesitation. In the final analysis, Mr. Goyle usually fares worse on the pitch. She surveys her work with a satisfied huff, taking a moment to catch her breath before Wanda's calls and the very obvious results of the castle's latest contretemps demand her attention elsewhere. 

With another sigh, this time a mixture of exhaustion and resignation, she shifts to the newest challenge. From the look of it, it's another one for her collection of pictures. 

Say what you will, the work here is seldom boring.  
  


By the time Madam Pomfrey seems to have Gregory's treatment well in hand, Vince has persuaded Millie to go to the library after classes, before practice. When it comes right down to it, he's laid up, she feels guilty about basically trying to steal his spot on the team, and he's a friend (isn't he?), no matter what he's done. Probably. She's becoming a lot less sure of that, and she keeps hearing Hestia's and Val's voices, _why did he open his Serpent in private..._

That thought and the doubts it raises cause her to leave a little earlier than she has to. "I'll see what I can do for you about that Charm, Vince." But there's no way she's going to find the answer in the time before practice. Fortunately, today's a Wednesday and she has a little extra time after classes today. Still. She suspects he'll be lucky if she has the answer by week's end.  
  


Before she leaves, she seeks out Madam Pomfrey. The Matron is currently busy with a couple of Hufflepuffs. Hopkins lies there, apparently recovering from whatever he'd had, and now she's treating that Muggle-born Hufflepuff Finch-whatsit. Somehow or another he's managed to get himself two heads. Millie is _certain_ that was a misfired hex, she's never heard of such a thing as a spell that does that in its own right. (Not that she's an expert, of course not, but that _does_ seem the sort of thing people might talk about...) She's equally sure from watching the miserable 'Puff's expressions and consternated Mediwitch that two heads _aren't_ actually better than one. 

Shows what people know. 

Poppy finally notices the girl lurking there and turns her attention towards the Slytherin. "What can I do for you, Miss Bulstrode?" Millie hesitates and Poppy encourages her further, "Come now. Speak up. I can't read minds."

"Matron, is there any chance I could... Could I perhaps have some Pain Relieving Potion?" The question is tentative, the young woman visibly unsure. 

"I'm sorry, Miss Bulstrode, we still haven't any in store. In the end, I was forced to Stupefy Mr. Goyle." Millie sighs. That means she'll have to ask Tracey for some whether she wants to or not. Well, they might not need any for Gregory or Vince with the way things look. If the Beater still has those wings, there's no _way_ he'll be at practice later. So just for Blaise and Draco then... 

"If it's an emergency, we can Floo you to St. Mungo's..." Personally, Poppy can't imagine it is. The way the witch seems to be hemming and hawing about it, she probably has her monthlies. She doesn't perform a Charm to check her suspicion, however. If the young witch isn't seeking her advice on the matter, Poppy's perfectly capable of keeping her wand to herself. 

"No, Matron. Thank you. I appreciate the offer, but it... it isn't an emergency." 

Monthlies then, Poppy is certain.  
  


"Do we need to feed both the heads then?" Wanda interjects as the young woman turns to leave. The nurse stands there with a reference text in hand, absently shaking her head as she flips the pages with little sign of satisfaction. "I can't find anything definitive on it."

"Let's just hope we've sorted him by dinner and needn't worry about it, shall we? If we haven't, we'll see then."

Justin, quite oddly, doesn't find that the _least bit_ reassuring. He glares crossly - with both heads - at Wayne, who looks extremely uncomfortable as he shrugs his shoulders in apology. 

They're in complete agreement, he _so_ owes him for this.

* * *

  


Afternoon classes now in session, the Bloody Baron drifts down deserted corridors with a determined expression that would have sent any unfortunate enough to encounter him scrambling. He heads straight for the Grand Staircase. Midway up the wall in a position quite inaccessible to the human inhabitants of the castle hangs an empty portrait that is his target. He stops, floating in front of it, and in his eerie whisper calls, "Headmaster. Headmaster Black."

Phineas Nigellus doesn't wait long to appear. 

The positioning of his portrait was as deliberate as everything else the Slytherin Headmaster had ever done or arranged. In his opinion, there were a few factors that dictated ideal locations. What he could observe from the space, the potential views, the accessibility of other portraits, the physical breadth of their landscape and the painted variety thereof, the quality of company provided and the information they in turn could offer - those were all very important. But perhaps most crucially, he was concerned with the amount of background noise the position dictated. He'd felt he deserved some peace and quiet in the hereafter, and as he'd been in a position to see to it, he _had_ , in the process securing himself the best of all worlds, he was sure. 

He can see much of the comings and goings in the castle and easily visit hundreds of other portraits from that location. The stairwell, in fact, boasts the largest conglomeration of magical portraits in the Wizarding British Isles. His reach is quite extensive from there, thanks to a nearly unbroken run of paintings in all directions for quite some distance, and he still congratulates himself, regularly, for that arrangement. But as his painting is thoroughly out of the way, when absent he isn't still exposed to the steady stream of noise a location like Salazar's is. 

As such, when Phineas is called there, he's more likely to hear it and generally very quick to surface. 

At present, he most reasonably assumes it's urgent, and pops out of Albus' office - his _own_ erstwhile office - to answer the ghost's call. 

Phineas will soon be sorry he did.  
  


The Baron has decidedly gotten the wrong end of the wand. The ghost is apparently _quite_ certain the portrait had been abusive towards the Head's bondmate last night, and it would seem he means not to stand for it. 

Or float, as the case may be. 

He doesn't tarry about much, but gets straight to the threats, primarily to have the portrait relocated. 

As far as Phineas is concerned, they're simply a rehash of yesterday's. He hadn't been impressed with them then, he's even less impressed with them now, and for the life of him - figuratively speaking - he can't seem to understand what's gotten into the ghost. Unfortunately, although the ghost is clearly agitated, he's not particularly _communicative_ , and he fails to get that point across as well as Phineas would like. 

Well, not _like_ , exactly, but find _useful_. 

Frankly the portrait is now rather tired of intimidation tactics, especially when he believes them to be hollow, and he's not naturally particularly cooperative on his best days. Predictably, he gives the ghost nothing but lip and completely neglects to mention that he'd actually been (reasonably) polite and on balance somewhat helpful last night. Admittedly the help had come a bit late - fine, it was after the fact - but then he could hardly help it if the witch refused to look at his portrait; it's not as though he were permitted to interrupt, shouting for her attention in the Headmaster's office. That really _would_ get him moved. 

(More accurately, of course, it would break all manner of restrictions and simply couldn't be done, but even portraits don't care to admit the extent to which they're bound.) 

Phineas has also had opportunity to draw some of his own conclusions as to Madam Snape's recent... misadventures. Mudblood or not, a Black doesn't shirk his duty and his duty here is clear. But as he isn't aware that the Baron knows of her... unfortunate experiences, he's not inclined to mention them or his resultant willingness to be more helpful either. 

Pity that, as it would have solved the whole misunderstanding. 

It's a curious argument. The portrait endeavouring to keep his voice low, muttering easily five words to the ghost's whispered one, none of which have any real meaning. Their location is too prominent and neither has any desire to air House matters in front of so very many other portraits. The sensible thing, naturally, would have been to withdraw to a quite corner, chasing the occupant from a remote portrait, but both are now too riled to be reasonable enough to suggest such a thing or even comply had the other done so. And so they continue their low exchange of whispered menaces and objections. 

Finally Phineas has had enough and simply laughs, "Fine, move me to the Grumpy Turret if you must. See if I care."

"Staircase," the Baron corrects, still wafting there before him. 

"What?"

"Grumpy _Staircase_ ," he explains slightly more fully and perhaps a touch petulantly, but he's mentioned it at least a half a dozen times. Clearly the portrait isn't paying him the proper attention. 

"Turret. Staircase. It makes little difference. We had neither in my day; perhaps I'd like to see the new addition. A change of scenery. How droll. Do your worst, I refuse to be cowed." He finishes a touch dramatically and laughs heartily again for all the reasons he'd laughed at the threats yesterday and because the Baron has been fool enough to approach him with nothing more in hand. He'd thought better of the ghost than that he'd attempt the same weak gambit twice. And Phineas is quite sure, he himself is grumpier than the stairwell at any rate. 

No, not even the threat of the Grumpy Staircase moves him, although it helps that's he's certain he'll never come to see it. Merlin, he's almost curious about it now.  
  


Thoroughly vexed, the Baron withdraws, leaving the portrait still laughing on the wall behind him. 

This, then, is what happens when he overplays his cards. 

It's bitter. 

A few things are amply clear. 

He doesn't enjoy this feeling in the least. He means not to experience it again, and must be more... cautious in the days to come with the students so this doesn't become an... epidemic. 

He positively _hates_ failure. Nothing's changed there since he died, then. He had a goal and has failed... for the moment anyhow, and he has _no intention_ of leaving things this way. 

If it's the last thing he does, although that _does_ seem unlikely - he _is_ a ghost, when all is said and done - he means to teach that portrait a lesson. 

It's only appropriate, really, as he's spent nearly a millennium haunting a school. He likes to think he's learnt a thing or two about teaching in that time.

* * *

  


The trek to Herbology is different today than it had been yesterday. For one thing, other than the two Slytherins, the only member of the Ancient Runes class to take Herbology with them is Justin, and he... Well, he probably has other things on his minds. (And either way, he's still in the Infirmary.)

Goyle isn't with them in this class either, so as they leave, it's just Malfoy and Nott, taking up their positions by Hermione as a very strange sort of honour guard. The duel before class, if it could properly be called that... 

Professor Babbling had objected to the term, of course, but Hermione suspects Malfoy had sort of set the Hufflepuffs up for that result... 

She's just not sure if doing so was... _wrong_. 

But the exchange, whatever one chooses to call it, seems to have shaken Nott out of his... fit, and although he's obviously far from comfortable with her, not like he'd been yesterday, he again walks more or less by her side, albeit at a marked distance, keeping an even sharper eye out for trouble.  
  


Which isn't to say he didn't die a thousand deaths when Draco put Theo between himself and the witch. 

The duel, and that's _precisely_ how Theo sees it, had indeed reestablished his role for him, at least respective this particular witch. If anything, he feels even more strongly about doing his duty to his House and his Head in trying to help her. For what little that's worth... 

He can't undo whatever they must have done to Jones, and he'll probably blame himself for that until the end of his days... But _this_ is a Muggle-born he can help, he'll be _permitted_ to help, possibly even _expected_ to do so - depending on how he interprets his father's owl - and maybe this way, just maybe he can atone. 

A little. 

He means to do what he can for her.  
  


Draco has similar thoughts, although with less uncertainty and self loathing. Not yet, anyway, and not today. The more strongly Theo reacts, the less strongly Draco seems to, as if in the process of trying to talk Theo out of it, he's been helping himself. (That will inevitably fail to help him at some point in the future, even _he_ senses that, and the guilt will come crashing back with a vengeance, but for now it seems to be doing the trick. And keeping busy definitely hasn't hurt.)

As he sees it, he has a job to do, far less onerous than usual, and one that might allow him to help dig himself out of his hole. 

Just a bit. 

And if it costs snide little Hufflepuffs points in the process, all the better. It makes it all the more likely he'll be able to convince some of the others to help that way. Not that the rest of the House seems to be interested in cooperating with the seventh years... Still, _sixty points_ and a detention, it wasn't a bad result. And it _should_ get the other seventh years on board.  
  


Hermione tries to break the awkward silence. Somehow this had worked rather well yesterday, and she has no idea why things are so strained today. Experimentally, she asks Nott, "So did you do any more research on the compounding of spells for a Transfiguration?"

"Uh, no. I..." It's one thing to walk with her. That serves a purpose. It's another altogether to casually chat with one another as though he were a decent human being, which he's clearly not. "I... Uh..." Theo just can't maintain the facade and begins to stammer. 

Draco recognises that before Hermione can and continues for his friend, "He wasn't very productive last night." A bit grimly he adds, "None of us were." 

The arrangement really isn't working. Theo's jumpy as a box of the Frog Choirs' toads and looks ripe to collapse. Draco can see beads of sweat forming on Nott's brow from the strain of the Muggle-born's proximity. So far, she seems largely unaware of the extent of her effect on the boy. Draco would like to keep it that way. 

Accepting Theo is unlikely to rally sufficiently, at least no time soon, Draco finally moves between the brunet and Granger, careful to stay slightly in front of the witch and to keep his hands visible as he leads the way to the greenhouses. He even carries his books in his left hand so she can clearly see his right arm. Naturally that has the advantage of leaving his wand arm free, and he has no doubt that will have occurred to her. On the other hand, considering some of the witch's recent troubles with the Weasel, it might be prudent to _have_ it unencumbered, although he doubts _that_ thought will have occurred to her as well. 

Moggies. They simply aren't tacticians. 

When they reach the doors, Daphne and Tracey are waiting for them again.  
  


As the girls are largely ignoring the boys, the boys are pretending not to notice and Theo is keeping his distance from... everyone, Draco leads, and Hermione soon is once again flanked by Tracey and Daphne ( _Hi, Hermione!_ ). Theo trails behind, thinking if he needs to act as a human shield, it's only fair. His ego functioning as it is of late, he has a sneaking suspicion that's all he's good for anyway. 

Conversationally - she simply isn't built for all this tension - Daphne asks Tracey how Divination was. (Where could the harm possibly be in _that_?)

Before the blonde can answer, Hermione looks at Davis in _shock_ , her Exploding Snap face needing (much) work, and half gasps, "You're taking _Divination_?" 

Quite typically, the judgment in her tone is clear. 

Tracey is about to explain, all she manages to get out is "Of course..." and she already sounds terribly defensive. Daph's lived with her for over six years now, she knows the girl well, and there is no way _that_ tone ends in anything less than a drawing of wands. (Generally Millie's or Alberta's, but still.) Deciding this was her fault, Daphne leaps into the conversational fray before it can escalate. 

Um, _again_. 

A bit too hastily to be natural, but it's easily forgiven, Daphne cuts Tracey off, asking, "Oh, and did you get your brewing done?"

Divination momentarily forgotten, Hermione, naturally, is instantly curious. And more than a little envious. Her thoughts turn entirely to the class she's no longer taking and potions in general, sort of as Daph had hoped they might. "Why were you brewing?" She asks, more than a little longingly. And _that_ tone does much to appease Tracey. "Was there an assignment?" 

"For personal uses," Tracey shrugs, somewhat mollified but not completely at ease with the Gryffindor and unwilling to explain the situation with their Head and the Pain Relief. Either the Head takes the witch into his confidences and tells her of things like that or he doesn't, but Tracey is sure it isn't her place to keep the Moggie informed about the Infirmary's stores. 

"You brew _yourself_? _Outside_ of class?" There's a note of incredulity, but not, the Slytherins feel, disbelief. No, she believes Tracey and seems rather... impressed. Daph had hoped she might be. Or at the least: distracted. "That's not something you see much of in the Tower." 

"Oh, it was nothing experimental," Tracey dismisses it, a little uncomfortable with the way Granger-Snape seems to be looking at her now. 

"This time," Daphne interjects with a broad smile. "She's greatly improved Pepper-Up," she reveals cheerily, not the least bit hesitant to provide the information. That's just another trait on the lengthy list of reasons she's not the typical Snake. 

"Is that what you want to do later on? Professionally?" Hermione is genuinely interested. If the world doesn't go to hell in a hand basket - and it's always nice to hope - it makes sense to prepare for the future. The only people she knows talking about it _at all_ , beyond Neville and Luna, seem to have a vague idea of joining the D.M.L.E. as Aurors, without really knowing what that _means_. Or playing Professional Quidditch, which seems... statistically improbable. 

Naturally, she's kept that analysis to herself. 

Well... _Sometimes_. 

And while she's on the topic, she can't begin to explain how such a small community as Wizarding Britain can support so many professional sports teams. 

Or Ministry officials, for that matter.  
  


"No, actually, but as _you_ should well know, as _Professor Snape_ always says, it's good not to _have to_ rely on others for things you can easily brew yourself," Tracey replies. She blinks, deliberately and just a mite smugly, punctuating the statement and waiting for Hermione to speak. Mentioning the unwanted bondmate was an inflammatory move, and she knows she can be a bit of an arse sometimes... The thing is, she _is_ a little frustrated by how often she's had to hide her accomplishments over the years. And frankly Granger-Snape's jibe about Divination had gotten to her. 

Possibly she felt, just a _little_ , like taking a swipe back. 

But Hermione doesn't answer. Personally, she's thinking how the Professor discouraged most of her House from brewing _ever_ , unless absolutely necessary, advising them to seek a qualified Potioneer's work instead. Of course, considering what Neville tended to make of a potion, there was perhaps something to be said for that advice... 

The longer she doesn't respond, the sorrier Tracey begins to feel. 

This doesn't come naturally to her, she's not gregarious like Daphne, but she finds herself explaining now after all in an effort to make up for the taunt. 

"I'm hoping to find an apprenticeship with a good Arithmancer on the continent after graduation. That's why I'm taking Divination, by the way, and Astrology, too." Hermione looks baffled, because that really doesn't explain it _at all_ as far as she's concerned. "A lot of the more traditional institutions still view Arithmancy with some suspicion. They consider it a new fad, and don't quite trust to it."

"New? It's been around for _centuries_."

"Which is how many life spans? Things don't change quickly here. It's a young discipline by wizarding terms. But it's helpful if you understand the traditional studies and can convey why the newer approach is better. So instead of just presenting the Arithmantic results, you back them up with Astrology and Divination and suddenly you have fewer detractors." 

"And that's worth wasting two N.E.W.T. preparations for? Because you still have to do the work for those courses, and that's something else you aren't learning instead?" But the question sounds more curious than confrontational now, and instead of being affronted, Tracey gives her a serious reply. 

"If you present the results of your oh so carefully researched Arithmancy problem in Professor Vector's class in Spanish, what happens?" 

"Not much, I don't speak Spanish," Hermione answers with a soft snort, and Tracey is surprised to find they're... kidding around. She can kid with the best of them - well, probably - she's just not used to doing so with the witch next to her. 

"German?" She asks. Hermione shakes her head. 

" _French_ then?" Tracey is happy to joke about this if Granger-Snape is willing. Maybe. But she doesn't like to be outdone, and she can keep this up if the Moggie can. Possibly. 

"What _do_ they teach you Muggle-borns?" Daphne teases. She has no problems with this in the least. 

"All sorts of perfectly silly things like science and maths," Hermione drawls, and there's a decidedly familiar note to it. 

"There used to be more maths here, you know. Formal maths training outside of what you have in Transfiguration and Arithmancy. Not so long ago..." Daphne sounds almost wistful. 

Hermione thinks she could possibly grow to like the girl. 

"So by wizarding terms, what's that?"

"Oh, over a century now I'm sure." That just earns Daphne a raised eyebrow that looks suspiciously Snapeian. 

"Well, full marks for consistency, I'll grant you that. So your point about presenting my results in French? And so we're clear, I'm not claiming my French is anywhere near adequate to the task."

"What sort of reception would you expect? What marks? Even if your French were absolutely perfect."

"Well, 'icy' and 'Troll', I suppose. It would go over like a lead balloon."

"Alchemy?" Daphne sounds confused. 

Tracey hasn't the foggiest either, but she's more willing to ignore potential Muggle-raised idiosyncrasies as she's more mindful of not appearing too interested thanks to her blood status. Drly she quips, "Without a Wingardium Leviosa, I assume."

"It's an idiom," Hermione explains. "It makes more sense in the Muggle world, I imagine, where a lead balloon would be liable to sink like a stone."

"Then why wouldn't you just say that?" It's not a criticism, Daphne is genuinely curious. The fact Slytherins aren't often given the chance to interrogate the Muggle-raised has much to do with it. At least, not in such an innocent fashion, completely without the use of a Crucio, say. 

Hermione is about to point out it's the same thing to a Muggle, but Tracey, ever cautious, brings them back to the original topic. "And why the 'Troll'?"

"Well, probably for being so pretentious," Hermione is grinning now. This is pleasant, and she's rather missed this sort of thing the past few days. Just... silly _banter_. 

"How unexpectedly _astute_ for a Gryffindor..." Tracey quips, but her smirk lacks bite. 

"No one would understand it," Hermione answers seriously now. "There's no way it would be accepted as a result no matter how good the research or calculations were."

"And _that's_ why I study Divination, so I can phrase things in the only language some people know."

Hermione thinks about it for a while. Tracey is right up there with her in marks and they're almost equally good in their classes. Honestly, the reason she hadn't considered her quite as good is that Tracey seemed to be taking fewer classes, or at least not some of the more challenging ones Hermione was. Tracey isn't in DADA or Ancient Runes, and Hermione had drawn her conclusions based on that. But apparently she's taking at least two others instead. It had never occurred to Hermione that someone with Tracey's rational turn of mind would be in _Divination_ , and _certainly_ not that she'd deliberately choose it over _Ancient Runes_. 

The very notion seemed bonkers.

She can also sort of admit (to herself) that the fact Davis isn't a Prefect had weighed against her, although in the Tower they'd been sure Snape's, that is, the Professor's, pure-blood bias had led him to choose Parkinson instead. She's had some reason to re-evaluate that, and she should know that awarding someone the Prefect position didn't necessarily mean the student was stronger. 

She's quietly confident she had deserved the Head Girl title instead of Padma, after all. 

Hermione also knows from Harry that Professor Dumbledore had told him he'd have been his first choice for Prefect instead of Ron. There were extenuating circumstances that had driven that decision. Perhaps that was true of Davis and Parkinson as well. 

Still, choosing to take _Divination_ and subjecting oneself to _Trelawney_ , _Professor_ _Trelawney_ , for all those years instead of a different, more valuable course... It's a concession Hermione wouldn't be prepared to make. 

Daphne giggles. "Do you know, you can see your every thought on your face." 

Tracey laughs, "She's even more transparent than you are. It's impressive." 

Daphne nods, completely unoffended. " _Divination_!" She cries out in mock mortification, looking at Tracey. 

" _Trelawney_!" Tracey responds, her tone equally teasing. 

" _The horror!_ " They chime in together, laughing. Hermione, rather strangely, notices she doesn't find it rude, and she's pretty sure that isn't even because of the Peace in her system. 

"They made it easier for us though," Tracey continues her explanation once she's regained her composure, but there's a smile now as she goes on. "The choice is between Ancient Runes and Divination. It's not as though it were one of the core courses I'd have hated to miss." Hermione's expression shows her disagreement clearly. "Seriously, Madam Snape," and Hermione blinks at that, "what will you be doing with your Ancient Runes once you graduate? I highly doubt it will affect your career choice in the least." 

"And yet Malfoy and Nott are both in that class with me," Hermione objects.

"Neither one of them will be pursuing a career in Arithmancy, so Divination wouldn't have done them any good. And I highly doubt they'll use their Runes knowledge either, but it looks nice on a CV. They didn't want the additional free period. We're at a slight disadvantage there." 

There's something... off about that, but Hermione doesn't quite see it. It sounds a little bitter. Judging by Daphne's reaction, this is one of those things they consider an unpleasant fact, and an _obvious_ one, but Hermione doesn't follow. She's coming to accept that they have some very different assessments of one and the same things to her own.

"What did you with the Pepper-Up?" She enquires instead, hoping to find more common ground. 

"Val's cousin, Val..." Tracey begins. 

" _Valerie's_ cousin Val," Daphne corrects.

"They named two children in the same family 'Val'?" Hermione's disapproval is evident. 

"Names tend to run in our families," Daphne is happy to clarify, every bit as willing to teach as she is to learn. 

"That shouldn't prove confusing in the least." Hermione's limited exposure to her bondmate seems to be having an effect. "How do you keep them apart?" 

"Context helps," Tracey answers wryly with a glance at Daphne who is pinking noticeably. It really _is_ true the average Firstie has that better under control. " _Valerie's_ cousin Val was prone to catching colds..."

"He caught them so well he should have been a Keeper," Daphne mutters, her face twisting noticeably, and Tracey shoots her an apologetic look Hermione can't quite follow. 

"I gather you don't think so..." Hermione prompts. 

"No," comes the atypically quiet reply. It would count as subdued from anyone, from Daphne it borders on aloof.

Hermione begins to ask about that when Tracey interrupts her, continuing her story, and the moment passes. "Val graduated last year. You may recall he also played on our Quidditch team?" Hermione shrugs somewhat noncommittally. Frankly, in their uniforms, they all look pretty much the same. "Well, you can see where the usual Pepper-Up would be a clear disadvantage on the pitch if it leaves you steaming for hours after."

Daphne perks up a little, "So Tracey worked on that, and she didn't stop until she'd reduced the steaming to under an hour." 

"It was a case of diminishing returns. And I _didn't_ think it was asking too much for him to get up an hour before he needed to play." Hermione takes Daphne's snort as agreement. "Reducing it any further was proving extremely difficult and the increase in the brewing time was exponential by the point I stopped experimenting with it." 

"But an hour!" It's unheard of. This is a _significant_ find. Sure, it won't revolutionise medicine, it's simply an improvement to an existing potion, but it really _is_ a noteworthy one. They are literally discussing a cure for the common cold. She can only imagine what her parents would think. 

" _Under_ an hour," Daphne corrects with a proud smile. Tracey had done excellent work. If she won't boast of it, Daphne is happy to do it for her. Of course, that's all part of why everyone thinks she makes a piss poor Snake, but really, _where else_ was she supposed to have gone? The immediate answer of 'Hufflepuff' calls to mind the unquestionably universal reactions to be expected were a Greengrass living in the sett. No, it had been out of the question. 

"That's amazing!" Hermione sincerely means it, and it shows. 

Tracey shrugs, a little uncomfortable once more. "I was gaining minutes at the cost of hours and the Arithmantical projection to take it any further yet was _days_. I'm not sure much more can be done, to be honest, not with the approach I was using. I think I got most of what I could out of it. You'd probably have to come at the problem from a whole different direction if you wanted to improve it further."

Not seeing any of that as a failing, quite the contrary, Hermione asks, "Have you reported your findings?" 

"To whom?" Tracey replies. Both Slytherin witches look confused now. 

"Well, with such a substantial improvement..." Hermione isn't sure exactly what to suggest, but it seems wrong to keep the knowledge contained only in the head of the white blonde next to her. "Even just to Professor Snape? He'd know what to do, maybe pass it along to the journals?" 

It becomes clear that she doesn't quite know what she'd do with the information either, and that she hasn't grasped a vital dynamic that both Tracey and Professor Snape would have reason not to attract attention with a new Potion development at the present time, certainly under the current political conditions. It's one thing to be competent, it's quite another to be inventive. Tracey just shrugs. This, of course, was all part of why she's so frustrated, and so eager to get clear of the Isles, somewhere she might be able to perform as she _can_ and get full credit for what she does. 

Britain isn't a good place to be for an unconnected liberal half-blood like her. 

Of course, it doesn't occur to her as she thinks it that's it's even a _worse_ place for a Muggle-born like Madam Snape, or that the majority of them are - almost by definition - even less connected than she is.  
  


Their conversation about Davis' potions experiment is just concluding as they reach the Herbology greenhouses, where two familiar faces have also just arrived, or perhaps were waiting at the door. 

Harry's potentially neutral "'Mione?" coincides with Ron's "Seriously, 'Mione? _Snape's_ _journals_?" And Hermione unfortunately no longer entertains the notion they might have been waiting for her, or at least not to do anything other than hassle her further. She's had rather enough of them for the moment. 

Not coincidentally, Draco's, "Out of the way, Potter," immediately redirects their attention. 

Just as the Moggies seem about to kick off (they're too easy, really, and Draco is just contemplating doing them as he'd done the Hufflepuffs), Professor Sprout interrupts, "Seats, please, everyone. No dawdling. We have much to cover today, and we didn't finish yesterday's lesson," the Herbologist looks a mite reproachfully at the Slytherins as she says it, but her words nevertheless seem to diffuse the situation. 

Malfoy and Nott bodily block Harry and Ron, as Hermione slips behind their backs (and isn't it weird they allow it?) to take her customary seat by Neville. Greengrass... _Daphne_ gives her a little wave as she and Davis take their usual seats somewhat further over. 

"What was that about?" Neville leans in and whispers in her ear.

"Who knows anymore," Hermione answers, her patience with her friends wearing thin. Chastising herself for the negativity and looking at Neville, she corrects the thought: _some_ _of her friends_. And then contemplatively she turns to look at Daphne who happens to notice her doing so and smiles back. 

Warmly.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone has a safe and happy new year! 🍀


	102. 11 12o Wednesday - Afternoon

**Severus (HoS, Potions), Hermione 7G (Prefect, Supreme Swot)**

**Staff:**  
Professor Pomona Sprout (HoH, Herbology), Poppy Pomfrey (Mediwitch extraordinaire), Irma Pince (rabid Librarian)

**Slytherins:**  
Draco 7S (Prefect, Team Captain, Seeker, Swot), Theo Nott 7S (Swottiest, Nervous Wreck), Vincent 'Vince' Crabbe 7S (Beater, Winged ex-Couch still-Potato), Gregory Goyle 7S (Beater), Daphne Greengrass 7S (Sparkly! Fwoopers!), Tracey Davis 7S (Swottier), Millicent 'Millie' Bulstrode (Reserve Beater, yes, _that_.), Harper Hutchinson 6S (Prefect, Chaser, flash Robe Model), Hunter Hutchinson 4S (Energetic Imp)

**Gryffindors:**  
Harry 7G (Team Captain, Seeker, the Boy-Who-Lived-to-Annoy-Severus), Ron Weasley 7G (Prefect, Keeper (but also only in the Quidditch sense), the Boy-Who-Exists-to-Annoy-Hermione), Neville Longbottom 7G (errant Herbal Knight)

**Ravenclaws:**  
Morag MacDougal 7R (lippy Muggle-born with _that_ lippy)

**Hufflepuffs:**  
Salome Smith 7H (née Perks, bonded to Zacharias Smith 6H)

**Others:**  
Sunny (the Snapes' house elf), Crookshanks (Hermione's half-Kneazle), Crankshaft (Harper's half-Kneazle)

**Mentioned briefly:** **Staff:** Professor Filius Flitwick (HoR, Charms), Professor Bathsheda Babbling (Ancient Runes), Nurse Wanda Wainscott (chatty), **Slytherins:** Hestia Carrow 6S (Chaser, sporty twin), **Gryffindors:** Ginny Weasley 6G (Chaser), **Ravenclaws:** Terry Boot 7R, Darius Inglebee 4R (Reserve Chaser, impatient Patient), Stewart Ackerly 4R (Beater), **Hufflepuffs:** Megan Jones 7H (Muggle-born), Wayne Hopkins 7H, Justin Finch-Fletchley 7H

* * *

* * *

  
**Previously:**  
Draco tricks Hufflepuff Wayne Hopkins into trying to hex him while they're waiting in the corridor before Ancient Runes. The hex bounces off Draco's Protego and strikes Justin Finch-Fletchley, giving him a rather superfluous second head. (Both Hufflepuffs land in the Infirmary.) 100

Albus informed the Heads this morning that Muggle-born Megan Jones 7H had withdrawn from the school. 096 Word is spreading through the castle. Pansy and Blaise told the other Slytherins about it at lunch. 098

Severus has Sunny bring him all the potions in the possession of his seventh year boys. He wasn't able to identify three of them without further testing. 097

While less than sober... Fine, while drunk off his arse Tuesday night, Severus took a Sectumsempra to the couch legs so he could snuggle Miss Granger more comfortably. 085 Wednesday morning, he was able to reattach two of the six legs before she put in a - scantily clad - appearance in their lounge. 088

After applying particularly brutal Legilimenses on the seventh year boys and concussing Draco, Severus asked Poppy to deny his students Pain Relieving Potion before losing consciousness in the Infirmary. 07 She wasn't aware of the details, but did as he asked. Unfortunately she hasn't had a chance to end the charade until now, and is still withholding the potion from his students. 

Hestia suggests Millie should ask Tracey for Pain Relief for Draco and Blaise. 083

Harper continues his now established tradition of taking pictures of Vince in... unusual situations, capturing him in his full winged glory on the couch this morning. 091 Unfortunately, he also fully expects Vince to continue the tradition of beating him silly for it, just as he had after the 'terrycloth Flobberworm' photos last year. Mentioned in 065

055 It occurs to Severus that the centaurs in the portrait in Minerva's classroom hadn't fetched help when Miss Granger was attacked, and he begins to treat the painting more that a little rudely. Oh, and with turpentine. 073

Irma Pince bans Hermione from the Restricted Section for the story she reportedly told that she'd been attacked by books there. 070 Not to be outdone, Hermione Confunded Madam Pince in an altercation over her treatment of Geminioed library books last night. 080

Vince convinces Millie to go to the library and try to find a Charm to manage the Kneazle fur for him, before his allergies do him in once and for all. 101

The Bloody Baron is so... kind as to point out to Hermione that he finds her Muffliato... wanting. 078

* * *

* * *

  
A quick count of heads, and Pomona determines Mr. Finch-Fletchley is missing. She recollects; he'll have had Ancient Runes before this class. Looking around the room, she realises none of the others present from her House take the course with him. 

"Does anyone know where Mr. Finch-Fletchley is?" She enquires of the room at large. 

Madam Snape, reliable witch, is quick to reply, "Professor Babbling sent him to the Infirmary, Professor Sprout." There's a moue of... something Pomona can't quite read, and she continues, "He's probably still there."

The Head of Hufflepuff finds herself suddenly growing more acutely concerned. She probably wouldn't normally be, Merlin knows, landing in Poppy's care is a fairly regular occurrence in the castle, but given the day's news about Miss Jones... Well, her nerves are a bit on edge. "What for?" She asks, and as most of her profession doesn't pause to consider it could perhaps have been something personal or embarrassing, best not revealed in front of all his classmates, not that it was for once. 

Hermione isn't quite sure how to answer to that, and hesitates as she considers. Draco, inveterate arse, derives a bit of amusement answering for her, "Hopkins hexed him." Which is perfectly true. 

To some, mostly Gryffindors, the smirk on his face suggests he'd enjoyed the sight. To a few, predominantly Ravenclaws or members of his House, it clearly reveals there was more to the story. By contrast, at his tone, most of the Hufflepuffs present begin to worry about Justin's state. Professor Sprout isn't the only one whose nerves are raw. 

Some muttering ensues, and Pomona, momentarily chasing her thoughts about her Badgers, doesn't put a stop to it right away. She's visibly more than slightly distracted as she makes some notes on the chalkboard. 

Under the cover of so many murmured consultations, MacDougal has no qualms about turning to Draco and whispering, "So what did you do to him?"

"What did _I_ do? To _him_? Why _nothing_. Nothing whatsoever," Draco is quick to assure her with a smirk that makes her certain it's _true_ , but not entirely _correct_. The grin she gives him to show she isn't buying it has him staring at her lips again. That only makes her smile broader, and deciding to treat herself to another lippy come Christmas hols. _So_ worth it. 

Theo, sitting beside Draco, shifts restlessly in his seat at the sight of their exchange. 

Morag resolves to try to pump Malfoy for information after class, but won't have any luck. Not that it matters. By dinner, everyone will have heard of the Slytherins' non-duel with the Hufflepuffs and Hopkins' failed attempt to give one of them a second head. A couple of fourth year Ravenclaws will mishear the rumours - ah, the difference a word or two can make - get the completely wrong end of the wand and proceed to mock Hopkins (in absentia) for his sexuality. Filius, fortunately, will overhear and add that to the list of things he lectures his House about this evening, for all the good it will do. Stewart Ackerly will feel the need to make a few quips to Darius Inglebee, and promptly find himself serving detention. Yet again. Terry Boot will tell him he's a prize fool after the fact, but then _he'd_ cost the House forty-five points with the whole insulting Snape and his wife and duelling the Worms for it, so what does he know?  
  


The Hufflepuffs seem concerned that another of their House is absent, reducing their number from eight to six today; their conversations revolve around their missing Housemates.

Professor Sprout tries to focus their attention on her notes, now tidily presented on the board. As she calls the class back to order and the noise dies down, Salome Perks, Smith, whatever can clearly be heard making a comment to one of the other 'Puffs about how, _Megan hadn't had anyone to bond, which is what led to this._

If Theo looked uncomfortable before, he looks a great deal more so now. He seems to shrink in on himself as he sits there, staring at the absent Muggle-born witch's seat through the course of the lesson. His mind may be eased with respect to Granger-Snape, MacDougal and Perks, Smith, whatever, but... He's taken Jones' withdrawal as confirmation that they'd done... _something_ very... _bad_ to the witch. 

More than once, Draco has to nudge him to pay attention to the lecture. 

Most people don't pay Nott much mind, and it goes almost entirely unnoticed. Daphne, however, happens to be a good friend of his, and she hasn't missed his response at all. Between this and his reaction at lunch to the news of Jones' leaving school... Much like Theo, she now turns inwards, pursuing unpleasant thoughts. It's subtle, for a change, for Daphne at least. Not that it matters. Even fewer people tend to take notice of her.

* * *

  


Severus flicks the door to his classroom shut as the last student leaves, a lift of his finger locking it as well. 

He does _not_ sigh. 

Fine, he did. 

It had simply been that sort of day. It was bad enough in its own right, it usually is, but the bond, Miss Granger's constant... Her never ending stream of emotions is getting to him. And _that_ despite the fact he is absolutely convinced she'd taken the Draught of Peace as agreed. 

Merlin's blue ball sack. 

Well. He'll simply have to work harder at Occluding. 

He feels there's a certain irony that he's pressed to do so because of a _seventh year Gryffindor_ and not, say, the threat of exposure by the Dark Lord, the - self acclaimed - world's greatest Legilimens, or any of his retinue.

With another wave of his hand, Severus has tidied the classroom. A flick and a fancy swish clean the cauldrons, all but one anyway. He'll reserve that one for the next detention. It should prove challenging. An elaborate looping of his hand sees the wards on his door recast, and then he exits to his office. 

A quick look at his desk assures him there's nothing as pressing as the identification of the potion phials he'd impounded from Crabbe, currently resting securely in his pocket. He sighs again, before forcing himself to be honest with the reminder that it's only the _circumstances_ that makes the chore an unpleasant one. Truthfully, this is a good deal more appealing an undertaking than almost anything else he could presently justify doing with his evening. 

It's been that sort of _year_. 

Possibly just the latest of several. 

What he wouldn't give for a month in the Lake District. 

Or even a week. 

None of his thoughts reflected in the least externally, he's practised, he strides through his office and into chambers, the door locking automagically behind him.

* * *

  


Between the Hufflepuffs and Slytherins, easily half the Herbology class is out of spirits, and when the period ends, they rise with less enthusiasm and chatter than usual. 

Neville, half apologetically, had told Hermione he'd be staying after to help Professor Sprout again, although he'd been sweet enough to ask if she'd like to join him. She appreciated the offer, she really _did_ , but she has things to do, and she's just begun looking about trying to think how she'll get back to the castle today. 

She imagines much as she'd arrived. 

And then a few things happen almost at once. 

Morag makes a beeline for Malfoy, determined to get more out of him, or at least to have some fun trying. Draco, his attention elsewhere, doesn't notice, but Theo flinches at the sight of her approaching, Daphne, in turn, becoming sadder when it registers. Hermione, unable to catch Greengrass'... Daphne's eye, seeks Davis', who with a nod indicates she'll join her. 

Harry tries to get to 'Mione, eager for a word, but Draco shifts - just a little, but it's all it takes - so he's stood between them. Ron, for once, is the one to pull his friend away, his reasons a complicated mix, but whatever else, with the Snakes _and_ a teacher present, this is obviously neither the time nor the place for whatever Harry had in mind, as he'll tell him on their way back to the castle. Hermione just catches the movement as Ron tugs at Harry, and with a look of utter disdain, or the best she can manage on Peace, she breezes past them with her Slytherins now in tow. As that's a look that comes fairly naturally to her, she still more than gets her point across. Harry, upon seeing it, stops resisting, gives in to Ron's urging and lets the little group pass unhindered. 

The moment is over so quickly, it's hard to pinpoint when it went wrong. All that most involved are left with are impressions of how they stand to one another. Draco couldn't say for sure if he'd done it because of the Protection Vow, just to mess with Rotter, or in the hopes of tricking the easily antagonised Gryffindorks into losing House points (Merlin knows, once they hear what he'd done to Hopkins it won't work again so soon), but he registers - with some pleasure - that his simple presence was enough to drive off the Boy-Who-Lived-to-Irk-Him and his ever present sidekick Weasel. That's satisfying indeed. 

So few things really are.

* * *

  


Severus enters his chambers only to be beset at nearly the first footfall. 

By a furry _beast_. 

A ginger _monster_ that seems to feel it is - somehow - _appropriate_ to weave his way between Severus' legs. There's an awkward shuffle he's glad no one saw (which completely neglects to consider both the half-Kneazle and the Disillusioned house elf currently resting on his fireplace mantle) as the Potions Master endeavours not to step on the creature. Doubtless Miss Granger would have a thing or two to say about _that_ if he had. 

"For fuck's sake," he complains, taking full advantage of his solitude. "What the devil do you think you're doing?"

It's unclear what answer he was expecting, what he _gets_ is a loud and protracted 'mraaaaawr', which naturally explains bugger all. 

Quite. 

"Watch where you go, unless you wish to end a _flat_ cat. Would you care to serve as potions ingredients? Hmm? It can be arranged." 

The feline is unimpressed. It's becoming a thing. It occurs to Severus that this might be an opportunity for growth. If he can cow the cat, half-Kneazle, he can probably take it up with the best of them. 

Which would be lovely, _just_ , if he had any desire whatsoever to _grow_. 

So sadly, he does _not_. 

At present, he's mostly concerned with survival. 

"Do you know, _Sunny_ never feels the need to intrude on my privacy after an interminable day in the classroom. _He_ has the decency to leave me be," he grumbles. 

Sunny, rather predictably, smirks invisibly with barely contained pride at the compliment. Of course it wouldn't have been uttered had the wizard any idea he was lurking about. 

Crooks merely 'mrawrs' his indifference. And then twines himself between the man's legs again. Severus bows and smoothly sweeps the feline into his arms carrying him to Miss Granger's chair where he deposits him without further ado. The sight of the couch beside him calling another task to mind. 

It was a deciding moment, whether Severus realises it or not. Crooks could just as easily have flexed his claws and gone for it. Not that it would have ended well for him, and perhaps he realises that, but then logic isn't always Crookshanks' forte. Instead he'd leant into their new wizard's hold, purring and earning himself a reflexive scratch behind his ears. 

Yes, he's well on his way to having the man trained. 

Crooks gives the invisible elf creature a decidedly superior look as he curls up to watch their wizard work. And after that, perhaps he'll take another nap.  
  


Severus crosses the lounge to retrieve the couch legs, ending their Disillusionment as he goes. He swears, mostly silently, to himself as he does so, still unable to comprehend the monumental stupidity involved in taking the Sectumsempra to his furnishings. Making good use of Miss Granger's absence, and reprimanding himself at regular intervals while he’s at it, he means to set about reattaching the remaining legs before that idiocy can be noticed. 

As he turns back, he spots one of his bowls on the kitchen island, full of... something. He Banishes the legs to the couch and goes to take a closer look, only to discover it apparently contains a good deal of... fur. 

Presumably half-Kneazle fur. 

Well. That's more than a little odd. Decidedly _unexpected_ at any rate. But he's always been quick to adapt. 

He reaches into the bowl and lets it run through his fingers. Soft. Silky. It's an agreeable sensation, a bit like Miss Granger's blanket, even, although perhaps not quite as... pleasant - as either said blanket or how it feels to... _pet_ the fur bearing animal itself. Presumably only because the orange fiend had more warmth. 

Of particular interest, he finds, is that although there is obviously some static charge, the fur fails to adhere to his fingers, dropping back into the bowl in a suspiciously orderly fashion. 

He Banishes the fur to Crabbe's bed without a second thought, and then examines his own robes only to discover - despite having _held_ the furry little beast - he doesn't seem to have a single hair on him. 

It would seem Miss Granger had discovered the Charm he'd requested, because he knows with a certainty, there had been no opportunity for her to charm the clothing he now wears. 

Hmm.

For the briefest moment, he's torn. She'd done as he asked, almost immediately, for which he should probably be grateful, except her need to constantly seek the approval of any and everyone in authority (besides Sybill) has long been a thorn in his side. So instead he scoffs that she hadn't had anything better to do with her time. His response is nearly as deeply ingrained as her own, but he feels just the slightest bit guilty about it. A niggling voice in the back of his mind hisses that he's just more comfortable scoffing, but he ignores it for the present. Ultimately, he tells himself that whether he actually considers that trait of hers admirable or not, it will almost definitely prove _useful_. 

And with that, almost convinced, he turns once more to his couch.  
  


It doesn't once occur to him that she might simply have been trying to do what little she could to make his life more pleasant after the week he's had. But then why would it? Almost no one ever does, a sad fact that's shaped him, _warped_ him to the extent that he rarely recognises it when Sunny does that either. 

Fortunately that's unlikely to stop either of them from continuing to try.

* * *

  


The Slytherins walk out of the greenhouse in the same formation they'd used as they came, flanking the Head's bondmate, and make their way somewhat solemnly towards the castle.

Draco leads, concentrating on scanning the terrain ahead and maintaining the Protego he'd cast wandlessly behind their small group. It won't stand up to much, but if all it does is buy them time to seek cover, it will have adequately done it's job. It permits him the peace of mind to walk away from Snotter and the Weasel without a backwards glance. Image may not be everything, but it's worth a lot and makes many things simpler. Easily half the battle is a battle of the mind. 

The clear advantage he has over _those two_ , naturally, being _he's_ in possession of one. 

Theo trails behind once more, a damn sight more listlessly than before. He almost seems to be walking in a stupor, and his primary use, were there to be a set to, truly _will be_ as a physical obstacle, and not as another wand in the event of a duel. 

None of them are in the mood to chat, and particularly not with one another. They proceed in silence for a little while, but eventually Hermione's annoyance with her friends ebbs enough that she begins to take in the Snakes around her. The Peace in her, obviously, helped. Nott's behaving even stranger than he had before, he's very clearly _there_ guarding their backs, but also equally clearly... _not_ there in any sense that matters. 

And Greengrass, Daphne is subdued. It's very unlike the normally effervescent witch. 

Tracey notices Granger-Snape starting to twig to the uncharacteristic behaviours in their little group, and tries to unobtrusively catch Daphne's attention, but her roommate seems lost to the world, damn her eyes. Draco is too far ahead to notice, and Theo... Well he's the primary problem, isn't he? Tracey decides it's down to her then, because it probably isn't for the best if the Moggie beside her gets to wondering about the affairs of the House.

She can't help feeling a little annoyed at Daph for setting the frightfully chummy precedent and now just bunking off. Still, she's better at this than Tracey will ever be, so the blonde makes an effort to channel her roommate, casting about for something to distract the Head's bondmate, before settling on what she's sure should be an easy source of conversation. "I'll bet you spent half of Herbology puzzling over how anyone could willingly sit through Divination..." 

That's all it takes. 

Hermione hadn't been, of course. For the most part, she'd been paying attention in class. Fine, occasionally she'd tried to listen to the bond or pinpoint the Professor through it - not with any great luck - but all that's required is a mention of the despised course and her thoughts are off and flying, her mouth not far behind in light of the opening. Tracey has to bite back her smirk. The Gryffindor's flounce from the classroom third year is the stuff of school legend, and four years later, Trelawney _still_ can't seem to abide the witch. 

It's a simple strategy, Tracey is comfortable with her reasons for taking the course, and superficially it would appear to put her in a weaker position. Granger-Snape's unlikely to recognise it for the gambit it is. It should keep her occupied for a while...

In a very animated fashion, Hermione proceeds to expound on the various perceived shortcomings of the subject and then the teacher. And she has a few choice things to say about Trelawney's regular predictions of doom, while she's about it. Tracey, only half listening, can't help thinking about the latest, that Jones should be in grave danger... With a glance in Theo's direction, she decides against mentioning it. She has a feeling it wouldn't help his state. 

But Hermione has gotten a little carried away, and she's not the subtlest of people. She's just - a bit stupidly, Tracey feels - begun challenging the academic rigour of anyone _electing to take the course_. Considering she _knows_ Davis is in it, and _why_ , it's really quite rude, but between her loathing for the material and her need for an outlet - any outlet - for some of her pent up frustration... She could hardly rant about Ron and Harry to the Slytherins. It would feel too much like a betrayal. And of course she's never suffered fools gladly. Well... other than her friends. 

The crack assailing her intelligence exceeds the limits of Tracey's patience. It's one thing to talk to the witch, but she won't stand here and allow the Moggie to _insult_ her. Tracey turns to her and halts her mid-diatribe, her voice level as she informs the Gryffindor, "I'm taking just as many courses as you are." 

Hermione naturally can't help thinking that Divination hardly measures up against DADA (or Ancient Runes). Although with the way Defence has been going this year, it's probably not anything to brag about... Professor Taylor. Holy Cricket. 

But _still_... 

Tracey has a pretty good idea what's going through the witch's mind - well, except for the thoughts about Taylor's deficiencies, she's thankfully been spared first hand knowledge of those - and it is indeed a sore point, not having taken Defence. Whatever else she may be, the Slytherin is no fool, and she'd understood, sadly only too well, when she was selecting her N.E.W.T. courses and their Head had made the suggestion that she _not_ take DADA. After all, it wouldn't do for her to be too... _useful_ , just at the moment. 

And he'd tried to provide, to compensate for any deficits with the self defence instruction he'd offered. No, considering what she's heard about the class... She doesn't feel she's come up short. 

There had even been independent reading assigned for at least some of those not in DADA. It had been elegantly done. The pure blood extremists that were academically capable had _all_ taken DADA. Which meant those that didn't weren't able to handle the material, and were easily, quite sensibly, excluded from any additional instruction. They'd been _relieved_ for that exclusion, in fact, as Aaron Avery would happily attest. 

It was impossible to judge Professor Snape's motivations in that as in most other things, and all camps in the House felt comfortable finding further proof for their personal theories about him in actions such as those. Not that it was ever discussed. But the more astute noticed it revealed nothing beyond a desire, no, not even that... merely a _willingness_ to apparently see the most made of his students. The _reason_ for it remained, quite deliberately they were sure, unfathomable.  
  


The Moggie's frankly inconsiderate air of condescension has begun to grate. Tracey feels a bit of an arse again, which _almost_ checks her, but she's not the most patient of people, and Circe's left tit, _this_ , things _just like_ _this_ , was what _Daph_ was for, damn it. _She_ should have been managing the Gryffindor. 

Tracey holds up a fist and begins extending fingers as she ticks her courses off, just as a... _gentle_ reminder. She starts with the courses they don't share, "Astronomy, Divination," and Granger-Snape's nose wrinkles reflexively, fuelling Tracey to move more readily to those they share. Or rather: _shared_. Her point should become clear within a moment, "Transfiguration, Charms, Arithmancy, Herbology...." She trails off. 

And Hermione comes to an abrupt stop, the witches with her. Because what the blonde has been kind enough _not_ to say is she's currently taking one _more_ than Hermione is, as _she's_ no longer in the _Potions_ class. 

It snaps her out of her Divination rant, and she pulls her head out of her arse. Hermione's just formulating an apology, she appreciates that the Slytherin hadn't rubbed her nose in it. That was kind. Which makes it all the more startling when Greengrass, Daphne now speaks up. 

"More."

Their sudden stop had shaken her out of her thoughts, and both of the other witches stare at her in surprise, and that sweeps the rest of the wool from her mind. 

"Tracey's taking more, if you count art," Daphne points out, still not sounding like her usual self, but it was a conversational cue she was incapable of _not_ responding to. That she also has opted not to mention Potions... Well, that fits perfectly with the others' mental image of the witch. Anything else, in light of the circumstances, would have been mean. 

Tracey's "But you aren't awarded a N.E.W.T. for art..." coincides with Hermione's, "But you can't get a N.E.W.T. in art..." and they both stop to look at one another with a touch of amusement. 

"Great minds?" Hermione offers as an attempt at an olive branch. This isn't her bailiwick. Goodness, she'd been well on her way to insulting the woman. _Again_. She smiles a little tentatively, but nevertheless _hopefully_ , and is rather relieved when Davis gives her a slight smile back. The Slytherin's head bobs once, apparently that's a nod of acceptance, and Hermione thinks they're back on solid ground. 

Well, perhaps not _solid_ , but it's no longer a bog. That must count for something.  
  


Barely in time, which is only what he deserves for staring at the ground instead of watching where he's going, Theo registers the witches standing in front of him. With something that sounds suspiciously like one of Flitwick's squeaks (which is fine, he has no dignity), he pulls up short. Draco's Protego, however, does _not_ , and it smacks into Theo from behind, jostling him into the three witches. The look of pure horror on his face as he does so has Daphne resolving to have a private chat with her friend. Soonest. 

Draco comes to an immediate halt when he feels his Protego encounter resistance. It wasn't the feeling he'd been anticipating. He turns to find the knot of little idiots just standing there, and shakes his head in wonderment. Not the particularly good kind. 

"What do you think you're doing? You can't dawdle about here. We have all of Herbology returning along the same path just moments behind us. Get moving," he hisses, and they do. 

They're clearly schooled. 

Hermione again has to wonder how much of their daily lives is planned as military campaigns. 

It takes them a moment to get back into the swing of things. Malfoy seems to be grumbling under his breath ahead of them; it sets a weird tone, especially as Hermione doesn't find it exactly... threatening. Which is more than a little strange. 

These past few days have given her a _lot_ to wrap her head around. 

She's genuinely curious, having realised she doesn't know much about Davis, and bolstered a bit by Greengrass', Daphne's acceptance, in a further effort to communicate some acceptance of her own, she asks the blonde, "Are you taking Muggle Art, too, or just..." The looks she gets from both Slytherins answer that quite emphatically. She can't help thinking Davis looks a little regretful though... 

Truthfully, Tracey would have _loved_ to take Muggle Art as well the regular Wizarding Art; sheerly as a matter of numbers, it’s a much broader field. But again... She's not an idiot. She's hoping she can get an apprenticeship in Paris or Rome where she could pursue her hobby in more depth alongside her studies, and far away from judgmental eyes. Not that she would ever dream of telling anyone about that, least of all the Muggle-born Gryffindor beside her who seems ever so intent on placing herself in the thick of whatever is likely to come. That would be foolhardy. 

Hermione goes quiet as she tries to work it out in her mind. They had clearly thought her something of an idiot for asking... 

And then she revises that. Green... _Daphne_ most certainly _hadn't_ , that was simply unfair. She's demonstrated an inquisitive nature and a willingness to learn about Muggle things. No, they thought the _question_ stupid, the answer obvious. Despite some curiosity. Which means Hermione is failing to look at this the way they do, a fact that would annoy her if only for the limitations on her part that it suggests. 

She gets the feeling they weren't dismissive of the subject per se or the very idea Muggles could produce art of value. No. No, she's pretty sure they weren't. Which means they're more accepting than she's come to feel the Snakes are as a whole, and that there may be more to the distance they put between themselves and Muggle culture than Hermione had previously been willing to consider. 

It's something to think about. 

But she's saved from doing so as they arrive at the castle.

* * *

  


Severus is lying, somewhat uncomfortably, on his belly in front of the couch. He's just attached the second of the remaining legs when his Floo flares to life. He's thankful he wards it, not that there was ever any question of _not_ doing so, he's not a gormless halfwit, but he has no desire for anyone to see him sprawled out on the floor like that. 

Only as he thinks it does it cross his mind that that was _precisely_ how Miss Granger had discovered him only yesterday. 

Well. 

He chooses to ignore the thought as he rises, setting his robes to rights as he approaches his fireplace. 

"Severus? Severus, are you in? Do you have a moment?" The Mediwitch's voice is unmistakable. 

The necessary hand gesture permits her to see that he is in fact _in_ , and - dignity regained - once more standing quite imposingly before her. Of course, Poppy is about as fussed by that as the feline, who stretches and yawns on the chair beside him.

He barely spares the thing a sideways glance. Just as well, as it keeps staring into space in a rather unnerving fashion. He supposes that's just a half-Kneazle trait of which he'd previously been unaware. All perfectly normal, Severus is sure. 

"What can I do for you, Poppy?"

"Oh, I'm so glad you're in. Do you feel sufficiently recovered to do a spot of brewing for us? Do you have the time? I'm afraid that we need some Pain Relieving Potion..."

He's confused at first, just for the briefest of moments, because that is something he _definitely_ has under control; they're _very_ well stocked. Except Poppy prods his memory, "As you _know_ , we ran out of it last weekend." 

As he himself has had some in the Infirmary _since_ then, he obviously isn't meant to take that for the truth. And just like that, it comes back to him, how he'd asked her to deny his students Pain Relief, and how she'd done so. Good witch to have in your corner, Poppy. A frightfully good witch, full stop. 

He nods his understanding, and she continues; it borders slightly on prattling, something Poppy tends to do when she feels forced to lie. "If not, no worries, just say so, and either I'll have to squeeze it in myself or we'll need to send to St. Mungo's for some."

"Ah, of course." He cautiously checks to make sure, "Are you _very_ full just now?" 

"No, no. Only a small handful of students." Her eyes dart, not particularly subtly, to the side. As her back is to the patients, it shouldn't matter however, and patients aren't necessarily the most observant of people. They generally have other things on their minds. 

"Hmm," he nods sagely. "Are any of _my_ House currently littering your beds?" There's something calming about playing this game with Poppy. The woman may not be the wiliest of witches, but she's loyal and on _his_ side. Precious few are. 

He doubts it's a handful. 

"Why, yes. Mr. _Crabbe_ is still here, we haven't sorted his wings yet, and Mr. Goyle has since been brought in." Her lips press together, and the apples of her cheeks bulge as she tries - with some success - to hold back a laugh. It should go without saying that it makes a great difference that the emergency has passed and all that's required is time for the boy to heal. But now that she's aware he'd done that to his backside _himself_... Merlin's merciful, well, _bollocks_ , really. She can't _wait_ to tell those she _can_ about it. Patient confidentiality can be _such_ a nuisance...

Severus imagines there's a story here he'll be happy to hear. There must be _some_ advantages to being the Head of House. Perhaps over a cuppa in the faculty lounge sometime soon. He finds himself looking forward to it. 

"Ah. Well, all the more reason for me to get brewing, I imagine. Very well. Let the gentlemen know it will be there after dinner at the latest."  
  


Poppy turns to look over her shoulder, she appears to be listening to someone for a moment, and then she swivels back to Severus. "Sorry, I must dash. Filius is here to see to Mr. Finch-Fletchley." She lowers her voice, holds up two fingers close to her body so they're not visible to the rest of the room behind her and whispers, "Two heads, don't you know. _Two_!" Before withdrawing and the connection closes. 

Severus imagines he'll hear all about _that_ as well. 

In a slightly improved mood, he retakes his position on the floor, and resumes faffing about with the couch, which is to say orientating and reattaching the remaining couch legs. Four down in total, only two more to go. He's made good progress, better than this morning. Possibly he's developed a feel for the work. Of course probability dictates that it must get easier with each leg he fixes, but still... There've been fewer false starts. He expects to have this finished and to begin his work on identifying the potions in plenty of time to meet Miss Granger.  
  


Sunny watches him work from his favourite spot on the mantle, studiously ignoring the furry beastie's stares. Mean creature. He can't begin to understand why the Mistress seems to like it so. 

The Master is coming along nicely with the couch, which the elf is glad to see. He could have repaired it, naturally, but the Master enjoys his woodworking, and there are things that he prefers to do himself. Sunny makes at least an effort to respect that. In exchange the Master allows him to make the bed, tidy chambers, save his life on occasion, launder his clothes, and even to clean the _laboratory_. _That_ he quite rightly takes for a sign of respect. Trust in his abilities. He's exceptionally proud of that fact. 

So if it makes Master happier to crawl about on the floor as he is, Sunny is willing to tolerate it. 

He's long since come to accept that the muttering and swearing, such as the Master keeps doing, in no way signify. When he's finished, he'll be quite pleased with himself, and he needs moments like those. 

But if the elf happens to take advantage of the fact the man doesn't notice when the leg he needs edges closer to his hand as he gropes about, who could blame Sunny? He's merely being true to his nature.  
  


Severus finally finishes the damn thing and rises smoothly from the floor, a little pleased with the lack of stiffness in his body. Poppy had done good work once again. He really should feel much worse than he does. As it is, he'd have no issues spending the entire evening hunched over cauldrons, although he doubts it will come to that. He surveys the couch, satisfied with the results. What a pointless exercise, no question, but not a single seam is visible, the grain uninterrupted and pristine. It's as if he'd never been a thoroughly idiotic... 

Yes, well. 

On consideration, of course, using the Severing Charm on the furniture was probably _not_ the most idiotic of the things he'd done last night, _particularly_ as he'd used it just to get an _armful of witch_. 

_Student_ witch. 

_Whose_ student isn't the relevant point there. 

Objectively, that's incorrect, but this is hardly an objective matter. No, it's about how the situation makes him _feel_ , and it's difficult to get any more subjective than that. 

Unfortunately, the situation doesn't make him feel good. 

Worse, the fact it _had_ felt good, that armful of witch, was exacerbating the situation. Somehow, once the thoughts start, others follow, like about what she was wearing when she emerged from her room and kept him from repairing the couch this morning...

And here he'd done such an excellent job of shifting his attention elsewhere...

It's as though solving the problem, repairing the damage had eliminated that distraction, and suddenly it's all he can think about. 

That gnaws at his satisfaction with the results of his restoration job until he manages to get the self destructive impulse under control. He decides to resume ignoring all of that, _vigorously_ , just as he'd ignored his dreams, tightly focusing his annoyance on the couch instead in the interests of what little peace of mind he still has. 

It's for the best. 

And if _that_ doesn't work, he can always Occlude some more...

Patting the phials in his pocket that he means to analyse, he heads to his lab without a backwards glance.

* * *

  


Hermione parts ways with the Slytherins in the Entrance Hall. She needs, well, _wants_ to go to the library, and Daphne and Tracey have work to do in the dorms. They hadn't accomplished much during lunch, after all. Draco needs to see to some things before their Quidditch practice, and Theo... Theo had quite honestly meant to go to the library in hope of avoiding witches - any and _all_ witches - there. But the idea of going there alone with _Madam Snape_... It has him quickly revising his plans. No, it would be far better to return to the dorms with the safety of Draco for company and then hide in their room. 

It sounds like a solid plan. 

Accordingly, upon arrival in the dungeons, Theo scuttles off into the seclusion of the boys' dorms with an alacrity few would have thought him capable of. 

Daphne means to have a quiet talk with him, but considering his reaction to witches in their rooms... Cornering him there is probably a very bad idea. She thinks she'd best wait him out in the common room. When he reappears, and he _must_ , she'll snag him and take him to one of the semi-private rooms off to the side for a little chat. 

As plans go, she rather likes hers, too. 

She'll be kind. She's resolved to that. Theo's her friend. She'd have found it difficult to be anything but gentle with him anyhow, and she has Draco's Oath from this morning to convince her that it's only fair and proper. 

And Theo really seems like he can't take any more anyway. 

She sets herself up with the stack of books on bonds beside her, intending to make what progress she can before dinner, and planning to do her homework as usual afterwards with the others. She'll just camp out there and keep a close eye out for him.  
  


Millie heads Tracey off as she enters with an atypically timid request for some of the Pain Relief she'd brewed at lunch. It's not objectively timid - this is _Millie_ , after all - but for her standards... She keeps her voice low, something Tracey appreciates, as she isn't altogether sure yet just how they should handle letting the boys know some is once again available. 

Despite Hestia's suggestion, Millie doesn't quite dare ask for more than a single dose, which Tracey is all too happy to fetch for her. No need to make the witch go into specifics with so many gathered round. Her discomfort ironically lends authenticity to the request. 

While Tracey goes to get the Potion, Millie takes a chair next to Daphne, and begins idly looking at the stack of books beside her. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

Daphne shakes her head. "It had mostly been picked clean. It seems we weren't the only ones with this idea. Ella and I had to reevaluate what we'd look into." She shrugs and gives the pile a sort of sad look. 

Millie kind of gets that. They'd been hoping for something practical, and this... it's like a ruddy _story time_ or something. It's questionable how much it will add to what they know as is, or if the information the books provide can even be trusted. It's not like history is a particularly _rigorous_ discipline. For Merlin's sake, it's even taught by a _ghost_.

"Good luck," she wishes her as she rises to meet Tracey, who covertly slips her a phial. 

"Thanks," Daphne answers. Adding more softly, "Feel better."

Millie nearly asks her what she means before it occurs to her. _Merlin's bloody bollocks_ , is she ever rubbish at this. Er, _goodness_ , yes, _that_. She pockets the phial and thanks Tracey, says goodbye and then after a few whispered words with Hestia, heads for the library.

* * *

  


Hermione wanders about the the library a bit, trying to figure out just where they'd have been likely to put books on mental health given it isn't a topic as such in its own right. Asking Madam Pince is clearly out of the question. She'd probably take it the wrong way anyhow. Instead, Hermione makes liberal use of Luna's Search Charm to try to find books that contain the Baron's suggestion of 'fits'. It proves about as useful as searching for 'Prince' had been, presumably for the same reason: there aren't many relevant results to be found. 

If there are any _at all_ , that is. 

Rather predictably, she comes up fairly empty except for books on tailoring robes, a topic she's heretofore - so oddly - quite thoroughly neglected. On consideration, she has to wonder there aren't any on sports in the selection, but then exercise has never been any sort of concept in the wizarding world. One could scarcely call sitting on a broom particularly _athletic_. There are probably some books on Healing or poisons that would have 'fit' the bill, so to speak, but they're most likely in the restricted section. She glares in that general direction often enough as she goes. She's surprisingly accurate in her orientation, as though she were always aware of its location relative to hers. Certainly in the library, it's never far from her mind. 

And neither is her ban. 

With ever diminishing hope of answering the questions she'd set out to, and growing more frustrated and antsier by the moment, she now feels the need of distraction. The printed equivalent of comfort food... She's literally surrounded by thousands of suitable exemplars, but finds herself drawn to the latest of the false positives, a clearly ancient book on charms for crafting clothing. 

It's not that the topic interests her particularly. It doesn't really, although she can freely admit she finds something quite... pleasing about the fitted blouse she now wears, one of the ones she'd made with Madam Pomfrey's help over the weekend. It's one thing to Transfigure something, another entirely to set about _tailoring_. But the book has that look, that feel, that _smell_ that has her wrapping her hands around it instead of returning it to the shelf. 

It hardly seems touched of late. A quick check of the borrowing card reveals in the past couple of years, it had left the library in the company of a Hufflepuff who had graduated a year ago, an occasional Ravenclaw, and a regular smattering of Slytherins. Daphne's name leaps out at her, somehow reinforcing the feeling that the book is like a friendly face in a crowd. 

Hermione can't really explain it, but she takes it with her to one of the desks. 

She casts a Tempus, and then sets it to chime when she needs to leave to meet the Professor, and then makes herself comfortable as she begins to leaf through the book as she thinks, using it as something by way of a palate cleanser, to sort of clear her mind and refocus. It works almost as well as Professor Taylor's mediation techniques. 

As she calms, her thoughts turn inwards. 

She begins to listen to the bond again, trying to pinpoint where she thinks _he_ is, _her_ Professor. It's easier in the silence of the library to make more sense of the feeling than it had been in class. She'd had a number of confusing impressions throughout the day, and it had her wondering if she hadn't had it entirely wrong, that the thing just doesn't work as she thought it did. Or perhaps he'd just been moving about the castle. It was a possibility. But now she has a strong sense of where he might be found - the dungeons, she's pretty sure - and she's feeling more confident about her assessment. She's just having more issue accounting for his... agitation.

Not that it's probably any of her business. 

It's not. 

At all. 

Which isn't to say it doesn't make a person curious. That's a difficult thing for her to wrestle with, sort of like how overhearing only half of a conversation has one automatically thinking about it more. 

She's flipping through the book a bit desultorily now when a shadow falls across her page. 

She looks up and is startled to see Bulstrode, stood there, just _looming_ over her. She only hopes her gulp wasn't as visible as it had felt.

* * *

  


Harper's in his room looking at the now developed pictures of Vince, and _Merlin_ are they beauties. This will bring in a neat Knut. And a pounding. 

Can't be helped. 

He's got a great shot of Daph's reaction to Vince, too, that he rather likes. He's considering if she'd appreciate a copy of it. Mightn't hurt to try on spec. He thinks it's not unflattering, but then she's a pretty witch, so _that_ wasn't much of a challenge; but what it had done _well_ was capture a sense of her wonder at the sight. 

He's rather proud of that. 

Hunter comes dashing in - sometimes it seems like his little brother only has the one speed - and practically leaps up onto his bed. Crankshaft instantly makes a beeline for the younger Hutchinson and in a matter of moments is on the receiving end of some perfectly lovely tummy scratches. 

He purrs up a storm. Cranks is anything but quiet. 

Harper shows Hunter the pictures, and he eagerly bobs his head in approval. "Wicked. Vince's going to go mental when he sees them, though."

"Yeah, I've been giving that some thought. Learnt a thing or two after the shower pictures last year, didn't I? Everyone who buys one takes an Oath not to reveal the pix to him."

"And the people _they_ show?"

"Right, everyone who buys one takes an Oath _that the existence of the pix will not be revealed_ to him. So they'd have to at least _try_ to get Oaths from anyone who sees them."

"Sounds better," Hunter agrees. Both of them know there are ways around it, there always are, but intent is everything. They're actually better off leaving it sort of vague. It's a game they play, pretending they're in this together. Both of them know it's Harper who's going to take the knocks for this. 

"And I've been working on a little something." He moves closer to Hunter, performs a charm silently and wandlessly, no one would ever know, and then commands, "Hit me."

"Why would I want to do _that_?" 

Harper flicks up a Privacy Charm, just in case. The older House members teach the younger students the Charm when they reach the age of majority. It's a ritual of passage, and he's proud to have added it so quickly to his repertoire. Hunter just grins at him, recognising that fact. He knows his brother too well. 

"I've been practising a weak Protego. Ideally, it will absorb some of the impact without you noticing."

" _Wicked_!" Hunter is quick to praise. And then he laughs, "But if it goes wrong, if it's too strong, what? I break my hand?"

"If you're able to hit me hard enough to break your hand, I'll buy you a broom." Naturally they can't afford that sort of thing, so Hunter takes it as it's meant. 

Draco's father had made sure the team was well kitted out, well, before... Right. Before all that. But Harper still has one of those brooms the Malfoys had bought. Their deal is he'll give it to Hunter just as soon as Harper's earning enough to be able to buy his own. Hunter worries sometimes that it means Harper won't pursue an apprenticeship in favour of trying to get paid work somewhere instead. He hasn't quite figured out how to make it clear to his brother that it wouldn't be worth it. Harper's a little too proud to really hear the facts sometimes. But if they've gotten by with two children at home for this long, surely it should be manageable with only the one?

Of course, Hunter for his part doesn't quite realise all the things Harper keeps running in their lives. 

Selling the pictures of Vince is just one of many schemes Harper has going. 

Hunter finally complies and gives Harper a slap. Cranks 'mrawrs' his disapproval and relocates to the end of the bed to better watch this, his dissatisfaction with his boys abundantly clear. "That doesn't count," Harper objects. "What do you even call that?" For a moment Hunter thinks they're just kidding around until Harper grows serious. "I need you to try, Hunter. If it's too strong, he'll know, and... And if it's too weak..." He's right, of course. It wouldn't end well either way. It's very like Harper that he doesn't paint the full picture for his brother. "There's no one else I can ask to test it."

Hunter sobers and rises from the bed. "Right, let's do this." He squares his slight build and then hauls off and gives Harper his absolutely very best shot, only to begin hopping after, "Ow! Ow ow ow ow!" 

"Are you okay, Hunter?" Harper immediately checks his hand, and Hunter's palm is reddening. 

"No," he whines. "Yeah," he corrects. "Sort of? He amends, and Harper tries to stifle a grin. Still, it takes Hunter a moment to be able to continue. "I think that worked about right, though. If I'd hit you like that without the Charm, it probably should have hurt." He sits there on the bed once more, nursing his hand now clasped tightly under his other arm and rocking back and forth slightly. Cranks gives both boys another disapproving look. "Relax, Cranks, we don't mean anything by it." He gives the half-Kneazle's head a scratch with his good hand before returning to the topic, "You know, I'd bet you anything Vince would take it as a sign of his strength if it hurts. But you have to remember to act hurt, or it's not going to do you any good."

Harper rubs his hand across Hunter's head affectionately, unintentionally mimicking Hunter's gesture towards the feline for the same underlying reasons. "Believe me, I'm a lot _less_ likely to stop to ask if Vince happened to injure himself while trying to beat me up. Plus, don't kid yourself, boyyo, that was a pretty solid slap. I _felt_ that." He smiles at his brother and they both know what's gone unsaid. His concern for Hunter had simply outweighed the pain. He rubs his arm now. That's definitely an advantage to his dark complexion, the bruises won't show - or _be expected_ to show - as clearly as they would on Theo, say. 

Theo may just have come to mind because there have been a number of unexplained bruises to see there over the years. Harper suspects they all have their brooms to bear. 

"Maybe Ella would be willing to help you with a Charm to make things look _worse_ tomorrow?" Hunter sounds nervous, because they try hard to pretend this isn't a wretched idea on so many levels, and this is getting too close to... Well, _reality_ really. 

"I'll give it a think, I need to ask her for an assist anyway. Thanks for helping me test it, though. It makes a difference." He sits down on the bed next to his brother, and Hunter budges up close to him. Harper tucks him in closer for a one-armed hug. Cranks isn't far behind. "Forgiven us then for the bit of foolishness, Cranks?" He asks as he scratches his pet's ears.

Cranks 'mrawrs' again in reply. 

The Hutchinsons both take that as a 'yes'.

* * *

  


Tracey claims the chair Millie had vacated next to Daphne, setting her books next to the decidedly more intimidating stack Daph has piled on the table between them. She figures she'll start on the reading, working a little ahead before their study session after dinner. She likes the way that allows her to get a jump on Draco and Blaise in the time leading up to Quidditch matches. 

With a start, it occurs to her that the reason they meet later in the evening is because so many of the seventh years play Quidditch and have practice before dinner. The thing is, four of the five of those are the boys they've just decided to ostracise. 

She's not at all certain what this is supposed to mean for their homework and revising sessions. 

It's all well and good to want to declare them persona non grata, to want to avenge their Head, but that's _half_ her class, gone in one fell swoop. She shouldn't like to _begin_ to imagine how this might impact her chances for an apprenticeship next year...

* * *

  


Severus is about to start his work on the three unidentified potions in his pocket when he spots the portrait he'd effectively glued above his workbench. At an angle. He has to hand it to himself, if anything he holds a grudge more thoroughly when drunk. He soon has it down off the wall and studies the terror stricken expressions of the centaurs for a moment before Summoning the Spirit of Turpentine and brush and repeating yesterday's exercise. 

It's highly cathartic. 

He watches the paint melt and run where the thinner landed on the portrait. 

It's so pleasing to watch, in fact, that he opts to leave the painting propped up next to his work space as he sets about analysing the first of the potions. He leaves it there long after the paint seems to have completely stopped running. Only when the centaurs appear to have exhausted their abilities to panic - for the present - and Severus has absorbed what he can of their misery does he once again stick the portrait to the wall. On consideration, exactly as he had yesterday. Why not, after all? 

And then he has a flash of inspiration and rotates it one hundred and eighty degrees for good measure. 

Perhaps he can find a painting that wouldn't mind telling him if the orientation matters to the subjects. 

If not, he can always run some experiments.

* * *

  


Millie heads to the library to look for a Charm to sort the Kneazle fur problem for Vince. It's not that she never goes to the library; she does. From time to time. _Of course_ she does. But she doesn't generally have to research things _on her own_. She often goes with Pansy, who is terribly bright, so that's a huge help, or with Vince and Gregory, and then they muddle through together. She _really_ doesn't like doing this by herself. But she's feeling pretty guilty, what with the secret practice at lunch and the fact she's pretty sure at least one of the boys won't be there this afternoon either, and she'll be filling in for one of her friends. _Replacing_ him. Trying to steal his spot on the team, as it were. 

And Vince's logic had made sense. Hadn't it? To keep this to herself, not to let anyone know...

So she hadn't told anyone, and here she is, all on her own. 

She makes a good stab at finding the books she needs by herself, too, but comes up empty. 

Damn. Er, drat. Yes, _that_. 

Frustrated, she turns to Pince and explains what she's after, and the librarian tells her the books she wants have recently been checked out and so are unlikely to return anytime soon. 

Damn and double damn. Er...

And then the woman gets this weird expression. She clearly has an idea, and there's this hard set to her eyes. Millie knows that look. Her mother has it often enough. It usually doesn't bode well for Millie, and she's sure it's meant to cause trouble for _someone_ , but she gets the sense she's not that person. Not this time. It's not like she has a whole lot of choice, so she waits the librarian out. 

"I'm afraid your Head took everything of use we had on the subject. But I'm sure you could speak to his _wife_. I saw her behind those shelves earlier. Why don't you try asking her?"

And so Millie does.  
  


Bulstrode's a large witch and far from friendly, and Hermione isn't pleased in the least to have her standing there. She shifts her position, trying to unobtrusively finger her wand, just for reassurance, and waits for the Slytherin to speak. Instead the young woman takes a look at what Hermione's reading only to snort in derision after a pointed look at the book and a sweeping gaze at Hermione's clothes. 

Hermione, quite naturally, bristles. 

There's something about it that makes her just want to _show off_ her new blouse, darn it, which is funny really, because she isn't usually wired that way. She could have dressed more nicely in any of the previous years when her parents would have been perfectly happy to spring for a nicer wardrobe - had she wanted - and she _hadn't_. It had simply never been a priority of hers. It isn't even _now_ , to be honest. It's just that Bulstrode... gets under her skin. 

_Witch_. 

"Did you want something, Bulstrode?" She sounds far from welcoming. 

"Pince says you have some books I need."

"Madam Pince," Hermione corrects automatically, managing to get under Millie's skin every bit as much as the reserve Beater gets under hers. 

Millie narrows her eyes, " _Madam_ Pince, then. She said you had the household charms for pets books?" There's a bit of a sneer behind it, that _Granger_ would read such a thing. The irony that she's asking after the very same stuff herself is lost upon her. 

Bulstrode isn't exactly a soft spoken individual, and Hermione has no desire to get into trouble with the librarian. Yet _again_. She draws her wand - the Slytherin doesn't even blink, annoyingly enough - and flicks up a Muffliato. Which would have been fine, really, except Bulstrode rolls her eyes. 

Millie snorts, she knows she's not supposed to, it's hardly proper, but how _else_ should she respond to _this_ , and simply comments, "Oh, _nice_ Charms work, Granger. Does it always buzz like that?"

It's Hermione's turn to narrow her eyes. It doesn't help that it's not the _first_ time she's hearing that in the last couple of days. Bugger. " _Snape_. And I certainly haven't got the books with me _now_. _Severus_ checked them out, you know. I'm afraid you'll have to speak to _him_."

Millie takes one look at the thin black band on Granger's hand before letting loose a belt of laughter. "Sure. _Snape_. Whatever. I need a Charm to get rid of shed Kneazle fur."

"You can't expect me to _teach_ you?" Millie doesn't reply. She's not a tactful person, she knows it, so it's best to keep schtum. She'll wait the Moggie out. In time the Gryffindork will get there. "Why would I?"

And _there's_ Millie's in. Merlin, it hadn't even taken long. 

"I'll teach you something in exchange."

And now it's _Hermione's_ turn to laugh, except she doesn't. Bulstrode is just too large and standing much too close. Hermione doesn't fancy her chances with the witch at her neck. She tries to view her restraint as judicious instead of fearful, with middling success. "You think you have something to teach _me_?" She injects just a touch of scorn into her tone, hoping it's enough to make her point without getting flattened. If the Protection Vow calls the Professor in for _this_ , he's not going to be particularly pleased. 

Millie simply turns her back to the Moggie, mumbles under her breath and waves her wand to put up the House Privacy Charm. Silent magic is difficult after all, and isn't exactly her strong suit, but that should do the trick. Within moments she's performed a charm that does not in fact buzz in the slightest. 

"Drop that noisy thing you cast. Go on," she prods, facing Granger, er, _Snape_ , yes, _that_ , once again. 

Hermione looks sceptical, managing to insult the woman once more, but ends the Muffliato, only to discover there's now no sound at all beyond the usual background noises. Of course, giving it a quick think, Hermione decides that would be true if the witch had cast nothing at all, and even if she _had_ tried casting the charm, Hermione's far from certain it was _successful_. Her expression, typically, reveals as much, and then she compounds the insult by saying so. 

"Sure, but how do I know that even worked?"

Millie, quite fairly rather offended, gives her a cruel smirk, tilts her head back, and lets loose one _**hell**_ of a scream. Er, a _loud_ scream. Yes. _That_.  
  


Hermione _panics_. There's the sixth year Ravenclaw prefect Wotsit Martins, who seems to just absolutely hate her for some reason, lurking about not too far off, and Madam Pince! Holy Cricket! She can't imagine she'll get away with Confunding her twice in two days. 

In her alarm, she upends her ink pot and the pile of school books she'd set on the table before her, only barely managing to cast a Tergeo to clean up the widening puddle of ink before it could damage the library book she'd been perusing. And that's _despite_ the Peace in her system. She doesn't like to imagine how much of a spectacle of herself she'd have made without it. 

"Have you _completely_ taken leave of your senses?!" She hisses, but the Slytherin just stands there smirking her stupid smirk, flushed and glowing, and in fact not a single person has looked their way. Hermione could swear her ears are ringing. 

"It's the bomb, isn't it?" Bulstrode beams. 

Hermione would sooner kiss a Flobberworm than admit the witch is right, except she is, which is a source of no little annoyance.

She purses her lips in anger and a touch of shame, what is the world coming to when _Bulstrode_ outperforms her? But she can be practical. And this was something she'd wanted after all. 

"Fine. I'll teach you the Vanishing Charm if you teach me your Privacy Charm." She looks a bit like she had to digest the remains of one of Wrongbottom's cauldrons, but she forces the words out. 

Millie's triumph is short lived, however. "I can't."

"What do you mean you 'can't'?"

"That's the House Privacy Charm, and we all swear an Oath never to reveal House secrets to people from other Houses." It goes without saying that it's the only one she knows. It's a thing, really, a terribly annoying _thing_ that people always seem to want stuff from her that makes her feel smaller. Stupider. Er, more stupid. Yes, _that_. 

Millie draws her lips in a tight line of displeasure and thinks for a moment, hard, before something the witch said occurs to her. "But I can tell you something about that ring of yours that you don't know."

This was completely unexpected. Hermione had very much wanted information, the idea it could simply be _handed_ to her... Well, that part is appealing, even if it feels vaguely like cheating on an assignment. The notion it could come from _Bulstrode_ , however, seems _highly_ unlikely. And if it _did_ , it would no doubt be an affront to her intelligence. 

Still, it's tempting. 

"How do I know you even have anything to tell me?"

Millie gives her a look, because they're right back _there_ again, then draws her wand and simply says, "I Oath it." It glows a bright gold for a moment and then fades. 

"'I _Oath_ it'? That's not even _English_ , never mind an _incantation_..." 

Millie's back would be right up about now, except she can't _believe_ all the things the Moggie doesn't seem to know. "For someone who's supposed to be so smart, you don't know very much, do you?"

And now Hermione's back would be well up, too, except something about the Slytherin seems sincere. She feels it's more likely the Snake would know something Hermione doesn't than that she'd be able to put one over on her. She has to admit, Bulstrode's Privacy Charm was far superior. 

It's frustrating, but then so much is lately. With some trepidation, she agrees. It's not that there's any harm in teaching her the Charm, not that. What difference could it make? She just doesn't like being taken for a fool, and she feels there's a real danger of that here. 

"You saw my wand _glow_ , right?" Bulstrode asks. Hermione finds herself wondering if there isn't a charm to make a wand do just that, and _only_ that, but then the Slytherin would have had to have done it silently and wandlessly, and from _this_ particular witch, that simply beggars belief. 

"It's all about the intent, _Snape_ , the wording doesn't matter on Oaths. Hadn't you noticed?"

Frankly, she had _not_. She'd been far too busy focusing on the wording of whatever she was _promising_ to notice that particular aspect. She stares at Bulstrode in horror. "That seems dangerous!"

That earns her a laugh. "It isn't if you meant it, which is pretty much the meaning of intent, isn't it?" Millie finds it rather funny that a Slytherin, of all people, needs to explain that to her. "All that matters is you see that flare on the wand. You did. So we're good.

"So now I've taught you something else, I think it's your turn. The Vanishing Charm," Millie prompts. 

"And I know you'll keep your end of the bargain how?" 

Millie twitches her wand and repeats, "I Oath it." There's an answering golden flare on her wand again. 

Hermione mutters under her breath, "That's still not English." With a sigh, she resigns herself to trying to teach Bulstrode something. She's had enough classes with the witch to know this shouldn't be easy. 

She's right. It isn't. 

It takes her quite a while to teach Bulstrode the Charm. 

Her irritation with many aspects of their exchange manifests in that she chooses to teach her the single use charm she'd learnt Monday, the one that Vanishes the fur once and needs to be reapplied. Each. And. _Every_. Time. She feels a little smug about that. She justifies it that the longer term Banishing Charm would have been more difficult for the Slytherin to learn, because Hermione's not entirely comfortable painting herself as someone simultaneously so vengeful and... well, _petty_. 

Although as she watches Bulstrode try - and fail - yet _again_ , she discovers she's becoming more comfortable with the thought... 

That must be the _twelfth_ time now. Holy Cricket. It's enough to try a witch's patience. 

Some odd need to feel less vindictive has Hermione telling Bulstrode about the Charm she _isn't_ subjecting her to as they work, as if mere act of mentioning it meant she weren't keeping it from her. She estimates the witch's chances of finding it in the books - once she and the Professor return them that is - to be about nil. It's not like she has Luna's Searching Charm, or would even know to look for 'receptacle'. The funny thing, of course, is Millie _is_ actually relieved to hear this exercise isn't as difficult as it could have been. It's a source of slight consolation as she struggles. 

On the thirteenth attempt, the proper colours finally shoot from Bulstrode's wand. 

What a relief. 

Hermione casts a Tempus and tells the Slytherin, "We need to hurry up."

"What? You want to get rid of me?" Bulstrode challenges, because she evidently _lives_ to feel slighted. Were Hermione more perceptive, that would probably tell her something about the young woman. 

"No, I need to..." After her mocking laughter from before, Hermione doesn't feel confident enough to say she needs to return to 'chambers', although that's exactly where she means to go. But she doesn't intend to give the reserve Beater another opening. "I need to go back to the dungeons."

Just then a bunch of Moggies come in, making a lot of noise. They're soon shushed by Pince, _Madam_ Pince. Er, yes, that, but Millie doesn't miss how Granger, _Snape_ flinches at the sound. She remembers what Tracey and Hestia had had to say last night, about making sure the Professor wouldn't be forced to act on his Protection Vow... 

Millie knows she hasn't been exactly good about sticking to their agreement as to how to deal with the boys, but then that was complicated. 

Maybe, just maybe, she can make up for it, just a little, by taking the other stuff Tracey had suggested more to heart. 

She can do that. 

She thinks so anyhow. 

She watches Madam Snape eye the Gryffindorks uneasily, and then offers, "I need to go back to get my Quidditch gear anyway. You can walk with me if you want." Granger-Snape is something of an arse, and once again, her face is doing that thing where it wordlessly suggests Millie is so inferior as to scarcely be worthy of note. _That's_ getting kind of old. And then the bint follows up the look by putting some of her contempt to words. 

"I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself." Which would be fine as objections go - maybe - except Millie can just _hear_ the implication she has nothing whatsoever to offer. If there's _one_ thing any Slytherin knows, it's _all_ in the tone. Yeah, her nose is royally bent out of joint. 

Hermione, of course, does indeed find the very idea Bulstrode should be considered better with a wand nothing less than a serious impugning of her own skills. She misses - completely - that it's not a question of a _comparison_ so much as an issue of having a supplemental wand at her side. 

"I'm good in a fight, as you may recall," Millie grits, her hand fisting, growing increasingly annoyed with the stuck up Moggie. Hermione rubs her neck reflexively; muscle memory, no doubt. She recalls their... scuffle from the second year Duelling Club all too well. "Unless you want to hang around here and let the Gryffindorks bother you, then suit yourself..."

Millie takes a breath and tries to get her temper - and pride - under control. She was trying to help here, wasn't she, and this seems sort of... counterproductive. At least if she were to go by the Moggie's body language anyway. 

"Plus I can explain about your ring as we go. It should save some time if you're in such a hurry." 

Hermione's Tempus chimes, forcing the issue. She suspects Bulstrode is in even more of a hurry than she is if she wants to make practice, but perhaps it isn't the worst idea to have some... physical company. She's not sure how much she should rely on the Baron's presence for assistance... And having taken an Oath off the woman, she can hardly refuse the offer, can she? 

Hermione agrees, packs her things together, grabbing the book she'd been looking at earlier as an after thought, and they head for Madam Pince's desk.  
  


The librarian is quite surprised to see them cooperating, that hadn't gone _at all_ to plan. Nevertheless, duty bound, a wave of her wand has her enchanted stamp attending to the due date card quite neatly, and her dicto-quill soon fills out the borrowing card for the young woman. It's only a matter of moments before the two witches are again on their way. 

Irma stares after them with a dissatisfied frown.

* * *

  


With very little effort, Vince manages to talk Nurse Wainscott into giving him quill and parchment. He's had a flash of inspiration and wants to write a letter... home, so to speak, with the information he's gleaned from Gregory about Jones leaving the school. He has this vague idea it might help to make up for whatever he'd done that had caused his father to be so displeased with him. After that last Serpent - Merlin, he rubs his nose at the thought - he's eager to try to curry some favour. 

He means to add what he can about their Head of House, one never knows what it's good for, but he's perfectly willing to pass on anything he can. For the moment, that will only serve to make Severus' position appear even more dire than everyone at the Manor had taken it to be. 

Were Vince half as bright as he believes he is, he'd have taken advantage of the fact two Hufflepuffs are currently in the Infirmary as well, but he doesn't. When he receives the reply to his letter Friday morning, his father will rob him of some his illusions. For one thing, the Death Eaters endeavouring to follow up on the information he provides will discover there are an absolutely _ridiculous_ number of Joneses in the UK, and they deem his information next to worthless. He'll be forced to scramble to discover the Muggle-born's first name, something that had been mentioned no less than a dozen times in his presence over the course of this past afternoon, except he hadn't bothered paying the Hufflepuffs the least bit of attention. By the time he reports back that witch's name is 'Megan', she'll have made it safely to Canada. 

Unfortunately, she's named after her mother. As a musician who had remained behind due to a commitment to play a concert Saturday night - she's the soloist after all - Megan Jones, the elder, is much more easily found.  
  


It transpires that it takes a great deal more effort to actually _write_ than it does to blag the utensils for doing so, stretched out on his stomach as Vince is with his wings still flapping overhead. The position is highly uncomfortable, and he doesn't get anywhere near as far with his letter as he'd like. 

Which is how Draco finds him. 

Vince pockets the unfinished letter for now. 

Draco has stopped by the Infirmary, discharging his perceived duties as team captain before practice, to check on Gregory and Vince. They hadn't been in the dungeons, and Gregory, at least, hadn't been in the last class. Draco was quite sure he'd find them here. Apparently, they won't be at practice either. 

With a bit of luck, they inform him, they should be home after dinner. 

He sits talking with them for a while, conflicted about how he feels about them. Had he not been so thoroughly... he doesn't even know what he'd been Friday. That had been his fault, no question. And he feels rather guilty with regards to Gregory. But he can't help the feeling of resentment that creeps up on him when he looks at Vince. That burns sufficiently that he fails to find the wings remotely amusing, which is probably saying something. But if it hadn't been for Vince's thrice damned Potion... 

Draco has little doubt any of the three of them would be sat here right now.

* * *

  


The two witches haven't gone far before Millie starts in, eager to keep her promise to Granger-Snape. Her wand's at stake, after all. It's never a good idea to have Oaths hanging over one's head. Mind, she hadn't set herself a time limit with her Oaths, but still. "So your ring? That's how I knew your 'Severus' spiel was a load of malarkey." 

Hermione isn't sure she follows, but this feels a lot like Ginny's response when she first noticed it. Hermione thinks of it with some anger, which is when she realises her Draught of Peace has worn off. She can hardly quaff another in Bulstrode's presence, it would almost completely defeat the purpose. 

Bugger. 

Millie keeps going, oblivious to the Gryffindor's discomfort. "The width and the sheen tell everyone how you stand to one another. I don't think I've ever seen a ring that thin in all my life. And the thing is practically _black_. The two of you, you're virtually strangers." It's not that she personally knows so many people who've bonded. Of course she doesn't know _any_. But she _has_ grown up surrounded by portraits, and that's one of the things she sees when she looks at them, the information instantly registered, because she knows just what the rings convey. 

Hermione goes three shades of green. It's fairly impressive. For lack of a better idea, she attacks the logic. "Why on _earth_ would you want _that_ announced to the world?" 

Millie has to admit, she finds this amusing. On balance, it had turned out far better than researching the Charm herself, and now _this_... It sort of makes up for her embarrassing showing trying to learn the stupid thing. "When you walk into Gringotts, how do they know you should have access to the family vault?" She challenges. 

"But for goodness' sake!" Hermione has to object. This is probably the _stupidest_ thing she's encountered in... possibly ever. "That's what _paperwork_ is for. Powers of attorney. _Proxies_. _Co-signing an account_ , for heaven's sake. You don't need to let the world know you're having..." Her complexion goes from green to deathly pale, and her words stop, dead in their tracks. 

"Sex?" Millie smirks and shrugs. She doesn't know all the details here, but she obviously knows more than the oh so brilliant Moggie beside her. It's not often she gets to lord her knowledge over someone, however imperfect it might be. "Bonds are rather older than most of the legal stuff. That was only necessary because bonding became unpopular. Take St. Mungo's, for instance. It let's them know that you can make decisions for your husband's care."

With a look at Granger-Snape's hand, she amends, "Or not." 

"Medical proxy," Hermione mutters, because clearly _that's_ the answer. 

But Millie continues without noticing. "Or any store for that matter? That you can place something on your husband's tab? Do you want to file your precious paperwork with them _all_?" 

Of course, _that's_ what credit cards are for, but then, they don't have them in the wizarding world, do they? No, they have rather weighty coins. Hermione had always wondered about that, how they managed bigger purchases... She'd never asked. 

She studies Bulstrode contemplatively. This is the first person to find something _positive_ in a bonding, other than the morons who'd liked Kiera's ring and giggled about her new quarters, as if there weren't easier, less _permanent_ ways of acquiring either of those, and Hermione would sort of like to hear more. If the Slytherin seems willing to provide answers, who is she not to ask? "So you mean you're planning on getting bonded?" Bulstrode gives her a look. One of _those_. "I mean when the time comes?" 

"Don't be stupid. Of course not," Millie's revulsion is evident. Granger-Snape looks very offended, and sure, the witch is in a bad spot, even Millie gets that. And that hadn't exactly been polite. She softens, "Honestly, I doubt I'd ever get married. So, no, a _bonding_ makes no sense at all in that case." 

There's something... off. Hermione has the strange feeling she just doesn't _get_ the Slytherins. They always seem to think things are readily apparent that seem somehow just out of her reach. And of course they don't explain, either through reticence or because they find those subjects so glaringly obvious, and Hermione doesn't even seem to know enough to be able to sensibly tickle that information out of them. 

Even stranger, she has the feeling she needs to... _console_ the witch. Which is very _weird_. For a _lot_ of reasons, not the least of which is she positively dwarfs Hermione, but she tries anyway. Presumably giants have feelings, too. "Maybe you'll feel differently when the time comes?" It very much sounds like a question, something she is nearly so unsure of she can't imagine it, but then she'd never really thought of Bulstrode that way, one way or another. 

The reserve Beater just snorts, kind of in the way Madam Pomfrey does. Not particularly ladylike, certainly unrefined. But it's... honest. "Yeah, maybe," she just answers with a shift of her shoulder that probably passes for a shrug and firmly ending that line of enquiry. 

They continue in silence for a little ways, but Hermione's still worried about her ring. She keeps looking at it and fingering it with her thumb and it's all very far from subtle. Millie kind of likes that. It's almost... nice to have someone more rubbish at all things Slytherin to speak to. With the exception of Daphne's blushes, which, _Merlin_... Millie often has the feeling she's the worst Snake of the lot. For the sake of her fleeting sense of accomplishment, Millie conveniently ignores the aspect that the 'rotten Slytherin' she's currently speaking with is in fact a _Gryffindor_. 

"It's just as well, you know," Millie assures her with a jerk of her head towards the other woman's hand. "Anything else would have been more disturbing."

Hermione chews on that for a moment, because it's a lot to swallow. 

Having at least entertained the notion that it might be... _desirable_ to talk the Professor round from his stance on celibacy at some point... And certainly after _last night_... (She does not blush. She does not blush. Much.) She can sort of picture that it might be... well, _nice_... to have actually done so... However the idea everyone would _know_ what she's done just by looking at her _hand_... is frankly _terrifying_. 

It's like some mortifying mood ring.

She begins to wonder if the ring might reflect the changes in her thoughts. What if _last night_ had been enough for there to be a change? Mercy, she has enough problems with Harry and Ron as it is! And what does it mean that there _isn't_ a change to it? Does it have to be unanimous? Just what would that mean then?? "Are they... are they different or linked somehow?"

"How do you mean?"

"Well are the rings independent of one another or a matched set?"

Millie shrugs, but really can't say. Still, there's some empirical evidence she can point to. Literally. She turns and scans the portraits on the walls beside them before selecting one of an elderly couple. She gestures to it. Their hands are clasped, clearly on display, a stance very popular amongst the bonded for portrait sittings once bondings had begun to go out of favour. Even if one didn't recognise the rings, the pose practically gives it away. "See how they match? I've never seen one where they don't."

Hermione's mind races. The need for consensus seems unlikely. Or does it? Is it the least common denominator, or the stronger will that's reflected there? The stronger _feelings_? She's about to pepper the Snake with questions when Bulstrode shakes her head, anticipating her. "I can't tell you any more than that. Bondings are rare, most of us don't know anyone... anyone _else_ who's done it." The Moggie's face falls almost comically, and Millie feels sorry for her. "I'd tell you if I did," she assures her and is surprised to discover it's true. 

They continue towards the dungeons in silence for a ways, Hermione still nervously thumbing her ring, a maelstrom of uncomfortable thoughts whirling about her mind. She catches the Slytherin shooting her speculative glances now and again and worries too much of what she's thinking could somehow be read on her face. Eventually she shakes herself out of it and tries to make innocent conversation. 

"So... I heard you made the reserve team?" Ron had gone on - and _on_ \- about the Snakes' change in strategy this year. And because _Malfoy_ is the captain, Harry had had scarcely any less to say about it. So, yes, Hermione is well aware that Bulstrode made the team this year. 

Millie nods, which doesn't exactly carry the conversation. 

"So... Are you filling in for Goyle in practice?" Bulstrode is back to staring at her, and Hermione half automatically continues, "He wasn't in Herbology today..." When the Slytherin nods - rather slowly, to Hermione's mind - she nevertheless presses on, trying to maintain the flagging conversation all by herself. "Do you have another reserve Beater?"

Millie is instantly cautious. (Given it had taken her _three_ queries to get to that point, perhaps it's not quite as instantaneous as she thinks.) Granger-Snape's disregard for the sport has been the source of much amusement in the dungeons, certainly given the positions her two best friends play. It's a pressure point that had been used successfully against the Weasel on more than on occasion. 

"Are you trying to _spy_ on us?" She accuses. 

Hermione frankly doesn't really care about the answers to her questions in the least, although it seems rather rude to say as much. _Spying_ couldn't have been further from her mind. Not even on a _good_ day - Quidditch? _Seriously_? - and just _whom_ would she report any findings back to at the moment with the way things stand right now anyhow? Some of which she might have just voiced in her shock... 

"Oh, _I_ don't know. Maybe you think it's a way back in with the Gryffindorks?" Bulstrode looks even more suspicious if possible. 

Hermione can't. She's sort of had it with... everyone. Certainly with stupid Quidditch stuff. _Definitely_ with her 'friends'. All she'd wanted to do was end the uncomfortable silence and _chat_ with the woman. Where was the harm in that? Scenes recently with Nott and Bulstrode cross her mind, and without further thought, she draws her wand, looks pointedly at Bulstrode and replies, "I'm _not_ _spying_ on your Quidditch team or passing on information about them. I _Oath_ it," and flicks her wand, just like she's seen them do. Whether it's English or not, damn it. 

It glows gold under Millie's watchful eye, and then she nods. The poorly considered consequence of these actions being the witch is now off and nattering about Quidditch. Hermione nearly groans. But - somehow - it has something.. relaxing about it. This is stuff she knows, stuff she's heard before, and it feels a little like... home. It's comforting in a weird way Hermione would never have thought to seek. She just walks along listening to Bulstrode go on about Wronski Feints and then is startled out of her reverie when the witch says, "Krum was very good at those."

"Hmm?" 

"He was a wonder to watch on a broom."

"Oh, I... I can't say that I did, much."

"I'll never get you, Snape. It's a skill, you know, and Krum's actually world class. There are very few who could handle a broom like that." Hermione glances appraisingly at Bulstrode. The Slytherin hadn't been one of the simpering sycophants trailing after Victor fourth year, and she doesn't quite seem to be fan-girling now. It appears to be just a sincere appreciation of his talents. 

"You seem to have this thing for hanging about people with something to offer and not valuing their strengths at all," she continues with a note of frustration. "Why wouldn't you stick to people you appreciate and respect?"

"I guess the answer is I _did_ _appreciate_ those 'people', just for who they _were_ and not their _skills_."

"Don't fool yourself. That _is_ part of who we are," she sounds a little bitter now, and Hermione thinks she begins to understand. It's difficult when your talents aren't prized by your nearest and dearest. She's been on both sides of that equation herself. Bulstrode will have had her own experiences with that from the sound of it. 

"It's moot now, isn't it?" Hermione answers quietly instead, lifting her ring hand slightly to drive home the point. Millie very nearly pinks, that's how bad it is. Yeah, she'd put her foot right in it. 

"Sorry, I wasn't trying to..." She trails off and looks at the woman's hunched shoulders and opts for some honesty. "I wasn't thinking, I apologise." Really, when you stop to consider it, the Moggie's situation is completely rubbish, and Millie shouldn't be making it worse. It's a bit like kicking a kitten, and she'd never be mean to a cat. Millie sort of feels the need to make it up to her. 

With a slightly wry grimace that's trying to pass for a smile, she goes on, "For what it's worth, you and the Professor aren't the worst of matches. It might not seem like it now," she can't help another glance at the ring, "but given time... He's one of the few really brainy types in the castle, and a decent sort of chap. You should give him a chance." She shrugs again and then completely ruins things, "It's not like you've got much choice."

The Moggie winces at that, in part because she's now picturing everyone's response to any change in their rings, but Millie misreads it. Yeah, that had probably just made things worse. Bollocks. _This_ is what they have Daphne for. For fuck's sake. Er, darn. Yes, _that_. 

They've reached the door to the Head's chambers and voices are approaching from further down the corridor. Millie recognises them as several of the others on the Quidditch team and is eager to part ways before they can get here. 

"Well, here you are. See you around then." She darts off a bit quickly towards the others. Hermione assumes the Snake didn't want to be seen fraternising with the enemy, so to speak. 

As she reaches to open the door, a wave of distress, _displeasure_ , not her own, rolls over her through the bond and now has her hurrying to enter and highly anxious about what she'll find.

* * *

  


Severus had made excellent progress on analysing the potions. One needs to simmer for a while yet, and will still require a bit of work, he knows he won't get any further with that one till after dinner, that much is clear. Another should be done before then, but now needs to finish reducing before he can complete his evaluation of it. The third he's already identified. 

Perhaps claiming he'd identified it is a bit too bold, but he knows what it contains, what it is and what it does, even if he doesn't know what it's called, and that seems the least important aspect to the thing after all. It's a recreational potion, one of the seemingly endless variety of Dream Draughts, and he's looking at it now trying to decide what to do with it. 

The Potions are legal. Merlin knows, they even teach things he considers worse as part of the standard curriculum. But in light of recents events and considering some of the other things he'd found... It's given him pause to reevaluate how he feels about some of those potions. 

This one has something for relaxation, and there's another substance to deepen the sleep it induces, very sensible additives in a dream inducing potion. More value for the purchaser's Sickle. But nothing too strong or addicting. It has a definitely erotic component, and a hint of an inhibition lowering agent, which should be far from problematic if the imbiber is _asleep_... 

He's essentially holding a wet dream in his hand. As a student, he'd probably have marketed it as a 'liquid dream' to fly under supervisory radar, he thinks with a smirk. Anyone who didn't get it, didn't deserve to have it. Actually, he'd probably have used that for marketing as well. 

Merlin knows, there are undoubtably enough wet dreams in the castle... 

He pauses for a moment to weigh what might happen if it's taken by one of the boys he's presently dosing with the Saltpetre... Safety first, potion interactions can be nontrivial under the wrong circumstances, and they have no idea they're even on it when all is said and done... The Dream Draught should counteract some of the desired effects of the Insalacious Saltpetre, but not dangerously, and as they'd logically be asleep at the time, he determines he needn't worry about what they could get up to. 

No, there's no real reason to impound this other than the fact he seems to have utterly lost his sense of... Fun. This was considered _fun_... 

He sighs, unable to see it that way at the present. He's too tightly wound. Fine, _recognising_ that is a good part of the battle. Not that he anticipates doing anything to rectify it in the near future. 

No, he fully expects to die before that needs addressing. 

Small mercies. 

And he did not just glance at his ring at the thought. 

He takes the other potions of the same kind from his extended pocket, lines them up in the rack before him and uncorks the lot. The phials and corks, quite sensibly, prohibit tampering. Once they're open, spells are easily applied, in this case, one to fill them all to the same level. A spell well worth knowing in his line of business. He gives it a bit of thought, before deciding to add a lavender tincture to each to top them off to make up for the quantities he used for the testing, and then re-stoppers them all, confident the alteration will go unnoted. 

Worst case, customers might accuse Crabbe of peddling inferior product. He rather likes the thought. Truthfully, however, he finds his students by and large far from discerning with regards to potions - and most other things as well - and considers that highly unlikely. Still, he takes his amusements where he can... 

For half a moment, he considers tainting the lot before stopping himself. At this point, his tampering will be overlooked. He has no way of knowing how many of these have been in circulation so far, which makes it all too probable any significant change would indicate he'd been at them. No, the spot of fun isn't worth it. 

He'd meant to appear omniscient, after all, not _childish_. 

But he does smirk to himself as he pictures it. Dream Draughts indeed. 

He calls for Sunny, who appears immediately beside him. "Yes, Sir, oh, Master of Potions, Sir?"

"Would you return these to where you found them? I should have the rest tested this evening as well. Thank you, Sunny. I appreciate your help." And off the grinning little elf pops. For all their robes may look alike, that grin of his always ruins the impression. Utterly.  
  


Severus is about to start work on a Potion of his own, something to occupy the time and indemnify himself for the past few days. He deserves to just do something he _likes_ for once... 

A ripple to his wards stops his preparations, however. It's unmistakable, Miss Granger has returned. Home. 

His Tempus reveals she is early. 

Naturally. 

Well, there's little point to starting now.  
  


He decides to go meet her and quickly tidies his workspace. He sets a Tempus to remind him to see to the reducing potion before dinner and exits his lab, closing the door behind him. It locks just as his office door had. 

Miss Granger's furry beast, he's pleased to note, _hasn't_ returned to his once much preferred spot on Severus' chair. She may truly have sorted the issue. His eyes automatically tick to her chair where he'd placed the creature not that long ago, but the feline isn't there either. 

He's not entirely sure why he does it, perhaps it's a sixth sense, or simply a desire to locate other beings he knows are moving about their quarters, but his eyes sweep the room, searching for the half-Kneazle. 

That is, they sweep the room until they reach the bookshelves that now dominate the lounge and make a _horrible_ discovery.  
  


He doesn't even notice he's completely failed to mask his mortification until Miss Granger enters their chambers. 

But then that isn't his most pressing concern at present.

  



End file.
